'III, 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Carle ton  Shay 


// 


LITERARY  BY-PATHS   IN 
OLD   ENGLAND 


SELBORNE  FROM  THE  HANGER.  —  Frontispiece 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

IN 

OLD    ENGLAND 

BY 
HENRY  C.   SHELLEY 

With  Illustrations  from  Photographs  by  the  Author 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,   BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 


Published  October,  1906 


THE  EASTERN  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  8.  A. 


PA 

GOO 


TO 

MY    WIFE 

K.  S. 

CON    AMORE 


813928 


PREFACE 

CHIEF  among  the  charms  of  the  English  country- 
side is  the  field  footpath.  It  may  not  offer  the 
most  direct  route  between  two  given  points  ;  but 
as,  avoiding  the  dusty  high  road,  it  leads  the 
wanderer  over  verdant  meadows,  through  fields 
of  golden  grain,  or  amid  the  still  recesses  of 
sheltering  woodlands,  he  will  not  grudge  the 
lengthening  of  his  journey.  Along  such  path- 
ways, which  best  afford  opportunities  for  quiet 
meditation,  eye  and  ear  are  often  greeted  by 
sights  and  sounds  not  seen  or  heard  on  the  more 
frequented  highway. 

Some  such  function  in  the  world  of  literature 
it  is  the  object  of  these  pages  to  fill.  They  are 
not  concerned  with  criticism,  that  much-travelled 
and  often  dust-enveloped  thoroughfare ;  instead, 
they  attempt  to  seek  out  the  pleasant  places  in 
the  lives  of  those  authors  of  whom  the  several 
papers  treat.  Still,  it  may  be  claimed  that,  not- 
withstanding the  avoidance  of  literary  criticism, 
these  chapters  offer  a  considerable  amount  of  new 


x  PREFACE 

information.  In  the  case  of  Thomas  Carlyle, 
a  visit  to  his  native  village  resulted  in  the  glean- 
ing of  some  characteristic  and  unpublished  stories 
of  the  sage  and  his  family;  while  the  papers  on 
John  Keats  and  Thomas  Hood  are,  thanks  to  the 
kindness  of  my  late  friend,  Mr.  Towneley  Green, 
R.  I.,  enriched  with  much  fresh  and  valuable 
material.  Many  of  the  photographs,  also,  depict 
either  places  or  documents  hitherto  unidentified 
or  unpublished. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  IN  SPENSER'S  FOOTSTEPS 1 

II.  THE  HOME  OF  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  ....  57 

III.  MEMORIALS  OF  WILLIAM  PENN 83 

IV.  THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  GRAY'S  ELEGY     ...  99 
V.  GILBERT  WHITE'S  SELBORNE 125 

VI.  GOLDSMITH'S  "DESERTED  VILLAGE"      .     .     .  151 

VII.  BURNS  IN  AYRSHIRE 173 

VIII.  KEATS  AND  HIS  CIRCLE 211 

IX.  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY 267 

X.  THOMAS  HOOD'S  HOMES  AND  FRIENDS  .     .     .  311 

XI.  ROYAL  WINCHESTER 367 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Selborne  from  the  Hanger Frontispiece 

IN  SPENSER'S  FOOTSTEPS  PAGE 

Althorpe  House 5 

Pembroke  College,  Cambridge 12 

The  Water-gate  of  Essex  House,  London 22 

Myrtle  Grove,  Youghal 29 

Title-page  of  the  First  Edition  of  "  The  Faerie  Queene  "      ...  35 

Kilcolman  Castle 40 

A  Grant  in  Spenser's  Handwriting 45 

Sixteenth  Century  Plan  of  Westminster,  showing  King  Street, 

where  Spenser  Died 50 

Spenser's  Tomb 52 

Edmund  Spenser 54 


THE  HOME  OF  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 

Penshurst  Village 61 

Penshurst  Place 64 

Penshurst  Place  :  The  Ballroom 71 

Penshurst  Place  :  The  Picture  Gallery 75 

Saccharissa's  Sitting-room 79 

Saccharissa's  Walk     .          •          ....  80 


MEMORIALS  OF  WILLIAM  PENN 

Church  of  All  Hallows  Barking,  London,  where  William   Penn 

was  Baptized 87 

Jordans  Meeting-house 89 

Interior  of  Jordans  Meeting-house 91 

Graves  of  Penn  and  his  Wives  at  Jordans 95 

xiii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  BIRTHPLACE  OF  GRAY'S  ELEGY 

PAGE 

Stoke  Poges  Church 103 

Stoke  Poges  Churchyard 105 

Stoke  Court 109 

Gray's  Bedroom 110 

Gray's  Study 110 

Gray's  Summer-house Ill 

"  The  Yew-tree's  Shade  " 117 

Gray's  Tomb 118 

Gray's  Monument 120 

Stoke  Poges  Manor  House 121 

GILBERT  WHITE'S  SELBORNE 

Cottages  in  Selborne 129 

The  Lythe 131 

The  Plestor 133 

Gilbert  White's  Home 135 

Gilbert  White's  House  from  the  Rear 137 

Gilbert  White's  Sun-dial 138 

The  Zigzag 140 

Wishing  Stone  on  the  Hanger 141 

Well-head 142 

Selborne  Parish  Register 143 

Selborne  Church 145 

In  Selborne  Church 147 

Knights  Templars'  Tombs 148 

Gilbert  White's  Grave 148 

GOLDSMITH'S   "DESERTED  VILLAGE" 

Athlone 156 

The  Deserted  Village 159 

Glassen  Village 163 

Goldsmith  House 165 

The  "  Glassy  Brook  " 167 

The  Busy  Mill 168 

The  "  Decent  Church  " 169 

The  Centre  of  Ireland 170 

Goldsmith's  Grave  in  the  Temple,  London 171 

xiv 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

BURNS  IN  AYRSHIRE  PAGB 

Alloway's  "  Auld  Haunted  Kirk  " ITS 

Grave  of  Burns's  Father 180 

The  Brig  o'  Doon 182 

Mount  Oliphant 184 

Lochlea  Farm 187 

Tarbolton 189 

On  the  Fail 192 

Masonic  Lodge,  Tarbolton 193 

Willie's  Mill 194 

Mossgiel  Farm 197 

The  Field  of  the  Daisy 199 

The  Cowgate,  Mauchline -201 

Poosie  Nansie's,  Mauchline 202 

Nanse  Tinnock's 203 

Mauchline  Castle 205 

Mary  Morrison's  Home 206 

The  Banks  of  Ayr 208 

KEATS  AND  HIS  CIRCLE 

Facade  of  Keats 's  Schoolhouse 217 

Haydon's  Life-mask  of  Keats 221 

John  Hamilton  Reynolds  . 222 

Mr.  Reynolds,  Snr 223 

Mrs.  Reynolds,  Snr 224 

Mrs.  Green,  n4e  Mariane  Reynolds 226 

Mrs.  John  Hamilton  Reynolds 231 

Record  in  the  Pupils'  Entry  Book  of  Guy's  Hospital,  London     .  246 

Record  in  the  Pupils'  Entry  Book  of  Guy's  Hospital,  London      .  247 

Extract  from  the  Register  of  Apothecaries'  Hall,  London   .    .     .  249 

Keats 's  Note-book  as  Medical  Student 251 

The  Back  of  Mr.  Taylor's  Fleet  Street  House 253 

Keats  in  his  Study  at  Hampstead 257 

Letter  from  Keats  to  Dilke 259 

Great  College  Street,  Westminster 261 

Keats's  Copy  of  Shakespeare 262 

Keats's  Last  Sonnet 263 

IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY 

Ecclefechan 271 

Arch  House,  Ecclefechan 274 

xv 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Room  in  which  Carlyle  was  Born 275 

Carlyle's  First  Schoolhouse 281 

The  Old  Meeting-house,  Ecclefechan 283 

Mainhill 287 

HoddamHill 291 

Scotsbrig 295 

The  "  Kind  Beech  Rows  of  Ecclefechan  " 299 

Carlyle's  Grave 305 

Carlyle's  London  Home 308 


THOMAS  HOOD'S  HOMES  AND  FRIENDS 

Elm-tree  Avenue,  Ham  House 314 

Certificate  of  Birth  of  Thomas  Hood 319 

Robert  Street,  Adelphi       343 

Sketch  by  Hood  to  Celebrate  the  Marriage  of  Mariane  Reynolds  349 

Rose  Cottage,  Winchmore  Hill 350 

Lake  House,  Wanstead 351 

Hood's  Trees  at  Wanstead 353 

Mrs.  Hood,  nie  Jane  Reynolds 354 

No.  17,  Elm-tree  Road,  SL  John's  Wood 355 

Thomas  Hood 357 

No.  1,  Adam  Street,  Adelphi 362 

Hood's  Grave  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery 363 

Medallion  on  Hood's  Monument  366 


ROYAL  WINCHESTER 

Wolvesey  Castle 371 

Hyde  Abbey 373 

Supposed  Grave  of  Alfred  the  Great 377 

Izaak  Walton's  Grave 380 

House  in  which  Jane  Austen  Died 383 

Jane  Austen's  Grave 384 

Winchester  Deanery 386 

The  Entrance  to  St.  Cross 388 

The  Dole  at  St.  Cross 391 

In  the  Cloisters  of  St.  Cross 393 

Pope's  Schoolhouse  at  Twyford 395 

Twyford  House .  397 


xvi 


1 

IN    SPENSER'S    FOOTSTEPS 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 
IN     OLD     ENGLAND 


IN   SPENSER'S   FOOTSTEPS 

But  Spenser  I  could  have  read  for  ever.  Too  young  to  trouble 
myself  about  the  allegory,  I  considered  all  the  knights  and  ladies 
and  dragons  and  giants  in  their  outward  and  exoteric  sense,  and  God 
only  "knows  how  delighted  I  was  tojind  myself  in  such  society. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

EDMUND  SPENSER'S  footprints  are  hidden  under 
the  detritus  of  three  hundred  years.  It  was  an 
age  of  national  cataclysm  in  which  the  bright 
lamp  of  his  spirit  wras  untimely  extinguished ; 
England  still  felt  the  after-glow  of  the  Armada, 
and  the  pride  of  conquest  infused  the  country 
with  a  strength  for  which  it  had  no  conscious 
outlet.  The  life  of  the  nation  ran  high.  "  Eng- 
lish adventurers  were  exploring  untra veiled  lands 
and  distant  oceans ;  English  citizens  ^vere  grow- 
ing in  wealth  and  importance  ;  the  farmers  made 
the  soil  give  up  twice  its  former  yield ;  the 
nobility,  however  fierce  their  private  feuds  and 

3 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

rivalries  might  be,  gathered  around  the  Queen 
as  their  centre."  In  this  new  haste  of  life  there 
was  no  time  to  carve  deeper  the  footprints  of  a 
poet  who  had  been  an  exile  so  many  years  ;  the 
men  who  could  have  done  it  if  they  would,  joined 
their  friend  in  the  silent  land  with  that  labour 
left  undone.  And  the  life  of  the  nation  rushed 
ever  on  and  on.  Years  after,  when  patient  eyes 
sought  those  footprints,  and  tried  to  map  out 
again  the  earthly  pilgrimage  of  that  rare  spirit, 
little  was  left  to  aid  their  pious  quest. 

Less  is  known  of  the  parents  of  Spenser  than 
of  those  of  almost  any  other  great  poet  of  the 
modern  world.  Two  facts  practically  exhaust 
oui'  certain  knowledge.  His  father  was  related 
to  that  family  of  Spensers  from  which  the  vic- 
tor of  Blenheim  sprung.  "  The  nobility  of  the 
Spensers,"  wrote  Gibbon,  "has  been  illustrated 
and  enriched  by  the  trophies  of  Maryborough ; 
but  I  exhort  them  to  consider  the  '  Faerie 
Queene '  as  the  most  precious  jewel  of  their  cor- 
onet." What  exactly  the  relationship  was  it  is 
impossible  to  say  ;  that  there  was  such  a  connec- 
tion between  the  poet  and  the  ancestors  of  the 
Spencer-Churchill  family  has  never  been  ques- 
tioned. The  poet  himself  claimed  such  a  rela- 
tionship, and  had  his  claim  allowed.  To  three  of 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  daughters  of  Sir  John  Spencer  —  the  head 
of  the  family  in  his  time  —  Spenser  dedicated 
poems,  and  in  those  dedications,  and  elsewhere 
in  his  verse,  he  asserts  his  kinship  with  those 
ladies  and  their  house.  To  the  Lady  Strange  he 
speaks  of  "  some  private  bands  of  affinitie,  which 


ALTHORPE  HOUSE 
The  Seat  of  Earl  Spencer 

it  hath  pleased  your  Ladiship  to  acknowledge ; " 
to  the  Lady  Carey  of  "  name  or  kindred's  sake 
by  you  vouchsafed  ; "  and  in  that  poem  which  is 
the  most  autobiographic  document  he  has  left 
us  —  "  Colin  Clouts  Come  Home  Againe  "  —  he 
sums  the  trio  together  as, 

5 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  The  sisters  three, 
The  honor  of  the  noble  familie 
Of  which  I  meanest  boast  my  selfe  to  be, 
And  most  that  unto  them  I  am  so  nie." 

In  one  of  his  sonnets,  Spenser  gives  us  an- 
other group  of  three  ladies  who  entered  largely 
into  his  life,  comprising  his  mother,  his  Queen, 
and  his  wife.  The  link  which  bound  them  to- 
gether was  that  of  a  common  name : 

"  Ye  three  Elizabeths  !  for  ever  live, 
That  three  such  graces  did  unto  me  give." 

This  meagre  fact,  then,  that  her  name  was  Eliz- 
abeth, is  all  that  Spenser  has  recorded  of  his 
mother.  But  of  both  father  and  mother  some 
little  additional  information  has  been  offered  in 
recent  years.  While  investigating  the  manu- 
scripts of  an  old  Lancashire  family,  Mr.  R.  B. 
Knowles  happened  upon  documents  which  led 
him  to  conclude  that  the  poet's  parents,  by  the 
time  their  son  entered  Cambridge,  were  living  at 
Burnley  in  Lancashire.  If  this  theory  should 
ever  be  removed  into  the  category  of  fact  it 
would  clear  up  much  of  the  mystery  which 
enshrouds  that  period  of  Spenser's  life  between 
his  farewell  to  Cambridge  and  his  appearance  in 
London.  It  is  indisputable  that  he  spent  much 

6 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

of  that  interval  in  the  north  of  England,  but 
where  and  with  whom  he  lived  are  not  known. 

East  Smithfield  is  pointed  out  as  the  locality 
of  Spenser's  birth ;  the  year  1552  as  the  date. 
Few  districts  in  London  have  altered  so  utterly 
out  of  recognition  as  the  reputed  scene  of  the 
poet's  birth.  Its  vicinity  to  Tower  Hill,  then  a 
focus  of  Court  life,  is  suggestive  enough  of  its  im- 
portance as  a  residential  district  in  Elizabethan 
times.  Although  careful  search  has  been  made 
among  the  registers  of  all  the  churches  in  the 
neighbourhood,  no  entry  of  Spenser's  birth  or 
baptism  has  been  discovered ;  for  the  place  and 
for  the  date  tradition  is  our  only  authority.  It 
is  true  that  one  of  Spenser'?  sonnets  is  cited  as 
evidence  that  he  was  born  in  1552,  but  in  offering 
such  a  witness  two  facts  have  to  be  taken  for 
granted,  namely,  that  the  sonnet  was  written  in 
1593,  and  that  its  "  fourty "  years  were  forty 
years,  rather  than  a  lesser  or  greater  period  ex- 
pressed in  even  numbers  for  poetic  purposes. 

Prior  to  the  discovery  by  Mr.  Knowles,  re- 
ferred to  above,  all  biographers  of  Spenser  were 
forced  to  pass  at  once  from  his  birth  to  his  stu- 
dent days  at  Cambridge,  but  now  it  is  possible 
to  fill  in  the  blank  with  some  interesting  facts  as 
to  the  poet's  school-days.  One  writer  minimised 

7 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

that  blank  by  dismissing  the  question  of  his 
school-days  as  of  no  moment ;  but  that,  surely,  is 
a  new  theory  of  biography.  Among  the  manu- 
scripts unearthed  by  Mr.  Knowles  was  one  which 
gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  spending  of  the 
bequests  of  a  London  citizen  named  Robert 
Nowell,  and  from  this  it  was  learned  that  Spen- 
ser was  a  pupil  of  the  Merchant  Taylors'  School. 
Such  a  discovery  directs  the  enquirer  at  once  to 
the  archives  of  the  school  itself;  and  happily 
these  are  of  such  a  nature  as  to  throw  a  flood 
of  light  on  the  early  educational  environment  of 
the  poet. 

It  was  in  1561  that  the  Merchant  Taylors 
bethought  themselves  of  founding  a  school,  in- 
tended principally  for  the  children  of  the  citizens 
of  London,  and  the  estate  purchased  for  the 
purpose  included  several  buildings  and  a  chapel. 
The  statutes  framed  for  the  administration  of  the 
school  are  suggestive  of  its  character.  Children 
were  not  to  be  admitted  unless  they  could  read 
and  write  and  say  the  catechism  in  English  or 
Latin ;  the  school  hours,  both  summer  and  win- 
ter, were  from  7  A.M.  to  5  P.M.,  with  an  interval 
between  11  and  1  o'clock;  three  times  each  day 
the  pupils,  "  kneeling  on  their  knees,"  were  to  say 
the  prayers  appointed  "  with  due  tract  and  paus- 

8 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

ing."  Nor  are  these  particulars  the  only  facts 
from  which  the  imagination  can  weave  its  picture 
of  the  boy  Spenser  in  school.  The  head-master 
in  Spenser's  time,  and  for  many  years  after,  was 
Dr.  Richard  Mulcaster,  of  whom  Andrew  Fuller 
has  drawn  this  picture  :  "  In  a  morning  he  would 
exactly  and  plainly  construe  and  parse  the  lesson 
to  his  scholars ;  which  done,  he  slept  his  hour 
(custom  made  him  critical  to  proportion  it)  in  his 
desk  in  the  school,  but  woe  be  to  the  scholar 
that  slept  the  while.  Awaking,  he  heard  them 
accurately ;  and  Atropos  might  be  persuaded  to 
pity  as  soon  as  he  to  pardon,  where  he  found  just 
fault.  The  prayers  of  cockering  mothers  pre- 
vailed with  him  as  much  as  the  requests  of  indul- 
gent fathers,  rather  increasing  than  mitigating 
his  severity  on  their  offending  children ;  but 
his  sharpness  was  the  better  endured  because 
impartial ;  and  many  excellent  scholars  were  bred 
under  him."  In  that  last  remark,  Fuller  wrote 
wiser  than  he  knew.  How  it  would  have 
rounded  his  sentence  had  his  knowledge  enabled 
him  to  write  the  name  of  Spenser  among  those 
scholars !  For  Spenser  was  a  deeply  learned 
poet,  and  it  is  not  idle  to  suppose  that  his  passion 
for  knowledge  owed  much  to  this  severe  mentor 
of  his  youthful  days. 

9 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

How  came  Spenser  to  be  sent  to  Cambridge  ? 
Some  light  is  thrown  upon  this  question  by  a  fur- 
ther consideration  of  the  history  of  the  Merchant 
Taylors'  School.  A  few  years  after  that  school 
was  established,  the  Lord  Mayor  and  alder- 
men of  London  suggested  to  the  Merchant 
Taylors  the  advisability  of  founding  a  scholar- 
ship at  one  of  the  universities.  The  company 
replied  that  as  they  had  been  to  so  much  expense 
in  establishing  the  school  they  could  not  burden 
their  funds  with  that  further  charge,  but  they 
were  willing  to  suggest  that  such  scholarships 
might  be  founded  at  the  cost  of  any  individual 
member  who  might  feel  so  disposed.  Until  that 
was  done,  however,  the  school  did  not  lack  for 
friends  willing  to  carry  out  the  Lord  Mayor's 
suggestion.  The  yearly  examination  of  the 
school  took  place  in  that  chapel  referred  to 
above,  and  among  the  scholarly  men  present  at 
the  first  examination  was  Archdeacon  Watts, 
who  had  already  founded  scholarships  at  Pem- 
broke Hall,  Cambridge,  "  with  a  general  prefer- 
ence for  youths  educated  at  schools  in  the 
metropolis."  It  is  explicitly  stated  that  several 
of  his  first  scholars  were  such  as  had  attracted 
his  notice  during  the  annual  examination,  and 
that  fact,  taken  in  conjunction  with  another, 

10 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

makes  it  practically  certain  that  Spenser  was  one 
of  those  early  participants  of  his  bounty.  The 
other  fact  which  supports  this  theory  is  that 
Dean  Alexander  Nowell  frequently  attended  the 
yearly  examination  of  the  Merchant  Taylors' 
School ;  and  that  Spenser  was  one  of  the  scholars 
who  profited  from  the  estate  of  his  brother 
Robert  Nowell  points  surely  to  a  friendly  talk 
on  the  poet's  behalf  between  Dean  Nowell  and 
Archdeacon  Watts. 

Robert  Nowell  died  early  in  the  year  1569, 
and  in  the  accounts  for  his  funeral  there  is  a 
list  giving  the  names  of  six  boys  of  the  Mer- 
chant Taylors'  School  to  whom  two  yards  of 
cloth  were  given  to  make  their  gowns.  The 
name  of  Edmund  Spenser  stands  first  on  that 
list.  Two  months  later  his  name  appears  again 
in  the  accounts  of  Robert  Nowell,  the  entry, 
under  date  April  28,  reading :  "  to  Edmond 
Spensore,  scholler  of  the  m'chante  tayler  scholl, 
at  his  gowinge  to  penbrocke  hall  in  chambridge, 
xs."  On  the  20th  of  the  following  month,  that 
is,  May,  1569,  Spenser  entered  Pembroke  Hall 
(now  Pembroke  College)  as  a  sizar,  and  during 
his  student  days  there  he  was  several  times 
indebted  to  the  Nowell  funds  for  small  gifts  of 
money.  He  probably  needed  them  all.  Pov- 

11 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

erty  and  ill  health  marked  his  university  career. 
The  college  records  prove  the  latter ;  his  position 
as  sizar,  independent  of  his  description  as  a  "poure 
scholler  "  in  the  Nowell  accounts,  the  former. 


PEMBROKE  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE 

Of  Spenser  as  a  Cambridge  student  we  have 
but  a  shadowy  picture.  He  took  his  B.A.  in 
1573,  his  M.A.  in  1576 ;  he  made  two  friends 
in  the  persons  of  Gabriel  Harvey  and  Edward 
Kirke  ;  he  planted,  if  tradition  speaks  truly,  the 
mulberry  tree  which  still  survives  in  the  garden 
of  his  college.  Some  biographers  would  have  us 
believe  that  his  undergraduate  days  were  em- 

12 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

bittered  by  conflicts  with  the  authorities,  but 
we  have  no  reliable  data  for  such  an  opinion. 
John  Aubrey,  in  a  statement  which  must  be  ex- 
amined later,  asserted  that  the  poet  "  missed  the 
fellowship  there  which  Bishop  Andrews  got," 
but  throws  no  further  light  on  the  subject.  Per- 
haps the  theory  that  Spenser  was  unhappy  in  his 
student  life  receives  slight  support  from  the  fact 
that  although  he  refers  with  affection  to  his  uni- 
versity he  makes  no  mention  of  his  college.  The 
reference  to  Cambridge  is  in  the  fourth  book 
(Canto  XI)  of  the  "Faerie  Queene,"  where  the 
poet  describes  the  rivers  which  he  summons 
to  grace  the  wedding  of  the  Thames  and  the 
Medway. 

"  Next  these  the  plenteous  Ouse  came  far  from  land, 
By  many  a  city  and  by  many  a  towne 
And  many  rivers  taking  under-hand 
Into  his  waters  as  he  passeth  downe, 
The  Cle,  the  Were,  the  Grant,  the  Sture,  the  Rowne. 
Thence  doth  by  Huntingdon  and  Cambridge  flit, 
My  mother  Cambridge,  whom  as  with  a  Crowne 
He  doth  adorne,  and  is  adorn'd  of  it 
With  many  a  gentle  Muse  and  many  a  learned  wit." 

It  is  known  that  Spenser  left  Cambridge  in 
1576  on  taking  his  M.A.  degree,  and  it  is  also 
established  that  he  was  in  London  by  October, 
1579.  Where  did  he  spend  the  interval  ?  If 

13 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Mr.  Knowles  is  correct  in  thinking  the  poet's 
parents  were  now  living  at  Burnley,  it  is  natural 
to  suppose  that  a  part  of  the  time  at  least  was 
passed  in  their  company.  All  authorities  are 
agreed,  and  on  good  evidence,  that  Spenser 
went  into  the  north  of  England  on  leaving 
Cambridge,  but  it  seems  impossible  to  locate 
his  exact  whereabouts.  Just  here,  however,  it 
is  right  that  the  statement  of  John  Aubrey,  the 
antiquarian,  should  be  considered.  Aubrey,  who 
was  born  some  twenty-seven  years  after  Spen- 
ser's death,  had  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
many  famous  English  writers,  and  it  is  to  him 
we  are  indebted  for  many  vivid  facts  about 
Bacon,  Milton,  Raleigh,  and  others.  He  is,  in 
short,  a  credible  witness,  whose  testimony  carries 
great  weight  even  in  the  face  of  improbability. 
In  one  of  his  manuscripts,  then,  he  sets  down 
these  particulars  of  our  poet :  "  Mr.  Edmond 
Spenser  was  of  Pembroke-hall,  in  Cambridge. 
He  missed  the  fellowship  there  which  Bishop 
Andrews  got.  He  was  an  acquaintance  of  Sir 
Erasmus  Dryden ;  his  mistress  Rosalinde  was  a 
kinswoman  of  Sir  Erasmus's  lady.  The  cham- 
ber there  at  Sir  Erasmus's  is  still  called  '  Spenser's 
chamber.'  Lately  in  the  college,  taking  down 
the  wainscot  of  his  chamber,  they  found  abun- 

14 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

dance  of  cards,  with  stanzas  of  the  Faery  Queen 
written  on  them.  From  John  Dryden,  poet 
laureat,  Mr.  Beeston  says,  he  was  a  little  man, 
wore  short  hair,  and  little  band,  and  little 
cuffes."  Such  is  Aubrey's  interesting  state- 
ment ;  but  there  are  two  considerations  which 
make  the  critic  hesitate  to  accept  it  in  an 
unqualified  manner.  These  are,  first,  that  Sir 
Erasmus  Dryden  was,  in  1576,  of  too  tender  an 
age  to  have  entered  upon  the  responsibility  of 
matrimony ;  and,  second,  that  his  seat  at  Canons 
Ashby  in  Northamptonshire  would  hardly  har- 
monise with  the  theory  which  locates  Spenser  in 
the  north  of  England.  Perhaps  neither  objec- 
tion is  very  serious.  Sir  Erasmus  may  have 
wedded  at  a  precocious  age,  and  Spenser  may 
have  sojourned  in  the  north  of  England  and 
still  had  time  to  spare  for  Canons  Ashby. 

Amid  so  much  that  is  nebulous  in  the  history 
of  Spenser,  it  would  be  a  relief  to  think  that  the 
mask  has  been  removed  from  the  fair  face  of 
his  Rosalind.  Of  course  there  have  not  been 
lacking  theories  of  her  identification ;  and  they 
have,  in  the  main,  been  as  childish  if  not  as  nu- 
merous as  those  which  cluster  around  the  person 
of  Dante's  Beatrice.  No  one,  however,  has  yet 
arisen  to  dissolve  Rosalind  away  as  a  myth  ;  she 

15 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

was  so  real  to  the  poet  that  her  personality 
refuses  to  be  translated  into  a  philosophical 
abstraction.  How  real  she  was,  and  what  a  sad 
time  Spenser  had  with  her !  Meeting  her  fresh 
from  college  and  while  full  of  high  hopes  as  he 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  life,  her  image  domi- 
nated his  life  to  within  a  few  years  of  its  close. 
In  that  autobiographic  poem  already  quoted, 
which  was  penned  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage 
with  another  woman,  he  rebukes  his  fellow  shep- 
herds for  complaining  that  Rosalind  had  repaid 
his  love  "  with  scorne  and  foule  despite." 

"  For  she  is  not  like  as  the  other  crew 
Of  shepheards'  daughters  that  amongst  you  bee, 
But  of  divine  regard  and  heavenly  hew, 
Excelling  all  that  ever  ye  did  see. 
Not  then  to  her  that  scorned  thing  so  base, 
But  to  my  selfe  the  blame  that  lookt  so  hie." 

Perhaps  that  last  phrase  lends  support  to  Au- 
brey's assertion  that  Rosalind  was  kinswoman  to 
Sir  Erasmus  Dryden's  lady.  Also,  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  E.  K.'s  "glosse"  to  the  April 
poem  of  the  "  Shepheards  Calender "  points  in 
the  same  direction.  Rosalind,  says  this  witness, 
who  was  "privie"  to  the  poet's  counsel,  was  a 
"  Gentlewoman  of  no  meane  house,  nor  endewed 
with  anye  vulgare  and  common  gifts,  both  of 

nature  and  manners." 

16 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Although  Spenser  loved  in  vain  for  himself  he 
did  not  love  in  vain  for  his  art.  No  poet  ever 
does.  From  the  travail  of  his  unrequited  pas- 
sion there  were  born  children  of  fancy  who  long 
ago  joined  the  dwellers  of  that  dream-world 
which  is  peopled  with  the  creations  of  poets.  In 
the  words  of  Dean  Church,  "  Rosalind  had  given 
an  impulse  to  the  young  poet's  powers,  and  a 
colour  to  his  thoughts,  and  had  enrolled  Spenser 
in  that  band  and  order  of  poets  —  with  one  ex- 
ception, not  the  greatest  order  —  to  whom  the 
wonderful  passion  of  love,  in  its  heights  and  its 
depths,  is  the  element  on  which  their  imagina- 
tion works,  and  out  of  which  it  moulds  its  most 
beautiful  and  characteristic  creations." 

It  is  certain  that  Spenser  returned  to  London 
by  October,  1579,  and  it  seems  probable  that  an 
earlier  date  may  be  accepted.  One  authority  de- 
clares the  poet  to  have  become  a  member  of  the 
household  of  Leicester  House  not  later  than  1578. 
In  the  June  seglogue  of  the  "  Shepheards  Calender," 
Hobbinol  (who  is  Gabriel  Harvey  in  rustic  guise) 
advises  his  friend  Colin  Clout  (Spenser's  poetic 
name  for  himself)  to  "  forsake  the  soyle  that  so 
doth  thee  bewitch  "  and  hie  him  to  the  dales, 

"  Where  shepheards  ritch, 

And  fruictful  flocks,  bene  every  where  to  see." 
2  17 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

This  advice,  avers  E.  K.,  "is  no  Poetical  fic- 
tion, but  unfeynedly  spoken  of  the  Poete  selfe, 
who  for  speciall  occasion  of  private  afFayres,  (as 
I  have  bene  partly  of  himselfe  informed),  and 
for  his  more  preferment,  removing  out  of  the 
^Northparts,  came  into  the  South,  as  Hobbinol 
indeede  advised  him  privately."  In  fine,  Gabriel 
Harvey  roundly  told  his  friend  that  life  was  too 
iserious  a  thing  to  be  spent  in  vain  regrets  for 
Rosalind ;  he  had  better  be  off  to  London  and 
try  his  fortune  there.  And  Gabriel  Harvey  gave 
more  than  advice ;  he,  it  seems,  was  the  means 
of  introducing  Spenser  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney, 
and  thus  opening  to  him  the  avenue  along  which 
such  preferment  as  was  to  be  his  lot  eventually 
came. 

So  persistent  and  probable  is  the  tradition 
which  makes  Spenser  the  companion  of  Sidney 
at  Penshurst  that  one  inclines  hopefully  to  the 
theoiy  which  dates  the  return  of  the  poet  some 
months  at  least  prior  to  October,  1579.  Than 
Penshurst  for  a  home  and  Sidney  for  a  compan- 
ion there  could  have  been  no  fitter  education 
for  the  poet  who  was  to  sing  the  swan-song  of 
English  chivalry.  Time  has  dealt  tenderly  with 
the  grey  walls  of  the  fair  Kentish  home  of  Sid- 
ney ;  they  stand  to-day  little  changed  by  the 

18 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

summers  and  winters  of  more  than  three  cen- 
turies. Here,  indeed,  are  environments  amid 
which  it  is  easy  to  frame  a  picture  of  the  poet 
and  his  courtly  friend ;  it  would  strike  no  discord 
to  meet  them  in  earnest  talk  in  this  old-world 
baronial  hall,  or  wandering  arm  in  arm  amid 
the  glades  of  this  ancestral  park.  "  The  gen- 
erall  end  of  all  the  booke,"  wrote  Spenser  of  the 
"  Faerie  Queene,"  "  is  to  fashion  a  gentleman  or 
noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle  discipline." 
And  who  but  Sidney  was  his  model?  He  "im- 
pressed his  own  noble  and  beautiful  character 
deeply  on  Spenser's  mind.  Spenser  saw  and 
learned  in  him  what  was  then  the  highest  type 
of  the  finished  gentleman." 

But  the  poet  had  other  occupation  at  Pens- 
hurst  than  that  of  studying  the  character  of 
his  host.  While  it  is  probable  that  the  "  Shep- 
heards  Calender "  was  begun  in  the  north,  in- 
ternal evidence  points  clearly  to  its  completion 
amid  the  southern  dales  which  surround  Sid- 
ney's home.  Wherever  begun  and  ended,  the 
poem  was  out  of  Spenser's  hands  ere  the  year 
closed,  for  on  Dec.  5th,  1579,  this  entry  was 
made  on  behalf  of  one  "  Hughe  Singelton "  in 
the  register  of  Stationers'  Hall :  "  Lycenced 
unto  him  the  Shepperdes  Calender  conteyninge 

19 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

ocij  ccloges  proportionable  to  the  xij  monthes" 
Although  there  are  reasons  for  believing  that 
the  "  Shepheards  Calender "  was  by  no  means 
the  first  fruits  of  Spenser's  muse,  that  volume 
was  his  first  serious  bid  for  the  suffrages  of 
Elizabethan  England  as  its  chief  poet.  But  the 
bid  was  made  in  a  very  modest  manner.  The 
volume  appeared  anonymously,  under  the  shel- 
tering wing  of  a  dedication  to  Sidney,  and  with 
a  commendatory  epistle  from  the  pen  of  E.  K., 
the  initials,  as  we  know,  of  the  poet's  Cambridge 
friend.  True,  the  epistle  was  bold  enough ; 
E.  K.  had  no  doubts  about  the  quality  of  the 
poet  for  whom  he  stood  sponsor.  Unknown, 
unkissed,  he  might  be  at  that  moment,  "  but  I 
doubt  not ,  so  soon  as  his  name  shall  come  into 
the  knowledge  of  men,  and  his  worthiness  be 
sounded  in  the  trump  of  fame,  but  that  he  shall 
be  not  only  kissed,  but  also  beloved  of  all, 
embraced  of  the  most,  and  wondered  at  of  the 
best." 

Edward  Kirke  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the 
fulfilment  of  his  prophecy.  Spenser's  success 
appears  to  have  been  instantaneous.  England 
was  waiting  for  a  new  poet,  and  had  grace 
given  to  recognise  him  when  he  appeared. 
"  But  now  yet  at  the  last,"  wrote  one  critic 

20 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

while  his  mind  was  filled  with  thoughts  of  Vir- 
gil, "hath  England  hatched  one  poet  of  this 
sort,  in  my  conscience  comparable  with  the  best 
in  any  respect :  even  master  Sp.,  author  of  the 
*  Shepherd's  Calender,'  whose  travail  in  that 
piece  of  English  poetry  1  think  verily  is  so  com- 
mendable, as  none  of  equal  judgment  can  yield 
him  less  praise  for  his  excellent  skill  and  skil- 
ful excellency  showed  forth  in  the  same  than 
they  would  to  either  Theocritus  or  Virgil." 

Very  soothing,  no  doubt,  all  this  must  have 
been  to  the  "  New  Poet,"  as  Spencer  was  called, 
but  also  not  very  satisfying.  These  fine  words 
did  not  butter  his  parsnips.  The  days  were  not 
yet  when  laudatory  reviews  and  a  consensus  of 
favourable  opinion  had  their  immediate  result  in 
substantial  cheques  from  the  publisher.  Spenser 
had  come  to  London  "  for  his  more  prefer- 
ment," and  praise  for  his  poetry,  however  com- 
forting, was  but  a  poor  stone  instead  of  bread. 
And  yet  his  success  as  a  singer  may  have  been 
responsible  for  such  advancement  in  life  as  was 
to  be  his  share.  Sidney  was  the  relative  of 
many  influential  men  in  those  days,  and  the 
friend  of  many  more,  and  he  it  was,  we  may  be 
sure,  who  secured  the  poet  a  place  in  the  house- 
hold of  Leicester  House.  That  was  a  notable 

21 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

river-side  mansion  in  Spenser's  time.     Once  the 
house  of  Lord  Paget,  it  was  now  the  abode  of 


THE   WATKK-GATE  OF  ESSEX  HOUSE,   LONDON 

the  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  known  by  his  name. 
Years  after  it  was  by  him  bequeathed  to  his 
son-in-law,  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  as  Essex 

22 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

House  it  sheltered  Spenser  when  in  London,  six- 
teen years  later,  on  the  last  quest  for  "more  pre- 
ferment." It  has  all  vanished  now,  save  the 
arch  and  steps  at  the  bottom  of  Essex  Street 
which  once  served  as  the  water-gate  of  the 
mansion  and  saw  the  "two  gentle  knights"  of 
the  "  Prothalamion "  receive  those  "  two  faire 
Brides,  their  Loves  delight."  There  are  prob- 
ably no  other  stones  standing  in  all  London 
which  can  claim  to  have  figured  as  these  arch- 
way pillars  did  in  the  life  of  Spenser. 

Perhaps  those  were  not  happy  days  he  spent 
in  Leicester  House  ;  instinctively  they  recall  the 
sorrows  of  the  solitary  Florentine  and  his 

"  Thou  shalt  have  proof  how  savoureth  of  salt 
The  bread  of  others,  and  how  hard  a  road 
The  going  down  and  up  another's  stairs." 

It  may  have  been  otherwise ;  we  cannot  tell ; 
but  to  the  high-spirited  man  there  are  few  trials 
so  galling  as  waiting  for  the  oportunity  to  put 
out  to  usury  the  talents  of  which  he  is  conscious. 
Spenser,  twenty-eight  years  old,  acknowledged 
the  chief  poet  of  his  country  since  Chaucer, 
well-equipped  for  serving  the  State  in  high 
capacity,  was  waiting,  wearily  waiting,  for  some- 
thing to  do.  It  was  his  mischance  that  that  age 
bred  a  plethora  of  able  men. 

23 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

At  last  his  opportunity  came,  but  in  a  form  he 
probably  little  expected.  It  seems  clear  that  his 
heart  was  set  on  some  state  service  which  would 
give  him  space  to  approve  the  reputation  he  had 
won  ;  his  letters  to  his  friend  Harvey  bristle  with 
poetic  projects  and  schemes  for  high  achieve- 
ment in  the  realm  of  letters.  That  he  fulfilled 
his  mission,  but  independent  of  the  aid  he  had 
anticipated,  is  not  the  least  jewel  in  his  crown. 

While  Spenser  was  still  waiting,  the  ministers 
of  Elizabeth  were  struggling  with  that  problem 
which  has  been  the  nightmare  of  English  states- 
men for  countless  generations,  —  the  problem  of 
what  to  do  with  Ireland.  Deputy  after  deputy, 
many  of  them  men  of  clear  vision  and  high  pur- 
pose, had  returned  home  foiled  in  the  task  of 
giving  that  country  a  stable  government.  Sid- 
ney's father,  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  had  been  the 
last  to  resign  the  hopeless  labour,  and  for  two 
years  the  Queen  had  no  personal  representative 
among  her  Irish  subjects.  But  circumstances 
had  arisen  which  made  the  appointment  of  a  new 
deputy  an  urgent  necessity,  and  in  the  summer 
of  1580  Lord  Grey  of  Wilton  was  appointed 
to  fill  that  "great  place  which  had  wrecked  the 
reputation  and  broken  the  hearts  of  a  succes- 
sion of  able  and  high-spirited  servants  of  the 

24 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

English  Crown."  This  appointment  was  of 
great  moment  to  Spenser,  for,  probably  at  the 
advice  of  Philip  Sidney,  Lord  Grey  made  choice 
of  the  "  New  Poet "  as  his  secretary. 

For  the  remainder  of  Spenser's  life  we  have  to 
think  of  him  as  an  exile.  There  were,  it  is  true, 
as  will  be  seen,  several  visits  home,  each  under- 
taken apparently  in  the  hope  of  "more  prefer- 
ment "  on  English  soil,  but  those  visits  are  the 
only  relief  in  the  picture.  Probably  it  is  quite 
reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  poet  distilled 
some  enjoyment  out  of  his  life  in  Ireland,  but  it 
is  impossible  to  ignore  the  fact  that  his  absence 
from  London  in  those  days  of  intense  life  in  lit- 
erature and  politics  robbed  him  of  much  keen 
pleasure.  He  was  in  the  golden  era  of  English 
letters  and  yet  not  of  it ;  it  was  his  fate  to  "  live 
in  the  Elizabethan  age,  and  to  be  severed  from 
those  brilliant  spirits  to  which  the  fame  of  that 
age  is  due." 

Socially,  too,  his  new  life  presented  a  sad 
contrast  to  the  environment  he  had  left  behind : 
instead  of  the  settled  comfort  of  Elizabethan 
England,  the  perturbed  life  of  rebellious  Ireland. 
His  verse  reflects  the  change  in  many  passages, 
some  of  wrhich  are  charged  with  that  pensive 
feeling  which  even  to-day  besets  the  traveller 

25 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

in  some  parts  of  Ireland.  Once,  while  freshly 
remembering  the  sights  and  sounds  which  had 
greeted  him  on  a  brief  visit  to  his  native  land, 
and  contrasting  them  with  the  common  events 
of  daily  life  in  the  land  of  his  exile,  he  poured 
out  his  spirit  in  these  plaintive  lines : 

"  For  there  all  happie  peace  and  plenteous  store 
Conspire  in  one  to  make  contented  blisse. 
No  wayling  there  nor  wretchedness  is  heard, 
No  bloodie  issues  nor  no  leprosies, 
No  griesly  famine,  nor  no  raging  sweard. 
No  nightly  bordrags,  nor  no  hue  and  cries  ; 
The  shepheards  there  abroad  may  safely  lie, 
On  hills  and  downes,  withouten  dread  or  daunger." 

Our  conception  of  what  exactly  were  Spen- 
ser's official  occupations  in  Ireland  is  by  no 
means  so  clear  as  might  be  wished.  He  went 
thither  as  the  new  deputy's  secretary,  and  when 
that  office  took  end  he  seems  to  have  passed 
from  one  clerkship  to  another  until  his  days 
were  numbered.  Various  grants  were  made  to 
him  from  time  to  time.  Now  he  receives  a  lease 
of  the  Abbey  of  Enniscorthy,  and  a  year  later 
a  six  years'  lease  of  a  house  in  Dublin.  When 
Munster  was  settled,  he  shared  with  many 
others  in  the  grants  of  land  then  made,  his  por- 
tion being  the  Castle  of  Kilcolman  and  an  estate 
of  three  thousand  acres.  This  was  the  most 

26 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

considerable  prize  that  ever  fell  to  his  lot,  and 
Kilcolman,  as  it  became  his  home,  is  the  one 
definite  mark  on  the  map  of  Ireland  which  Spen- 
ser's name  suggests.  But  none  of  these  grants 
made  him  a  wealthy  man.  So  far  as  worldly 
goods  go,  the  line  of  Giles  Fletcher  sums  up  his 
case : 

"  Poorly,  poor  man,  he  lived  ;  poorly,  poor  man,  he  died." 

When  Spenser  went  to  Ireland  he  carried  the 
scheme  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  with  him.  He 
may  have  shaped  it  into  some  form  during  his 
college  or  north  of  England  days ;  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  he  talked  it  over  with  Sidney  at 
Penshurst.  But,  admitting  that  the  idea  of  the 
poem  took  early  root  in  his  mind,  the  fashioning 
of  it  into  its  final  form  was  accomplished  almost 
wholly  on  Irish  soil.  In  a  curious  and  very 
scarce  pamphlet,  bearing  the  title  of  "  A  Dis- 
course of  Civil  Life,"  there  is  given  a  description 
of  a  meeting  of  literary  men,  which  took  place 
in  a  cottage  near  Dublin  somewhere  between  the 
years  1584  and  1588.  The  author,  Ludowick 
Bryskett,  explains  that  a  debate  took  place  at 
that  meeting  on  ethics,  and  he  describes  himself 
as  asking  one  member  of  the  company,  "  very 
well  read  in  Philosophy,  both  moral  and  natural," 

27 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

to  favour  the  rest  with  his  conclusions  on  the 
matter.  The  one  so  appealed  to  was  Edmund 
Spenser.  His  answer,  as  reported  by  Bryskett, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  practically  our  only  Boswellian 
glimpse  of  the  poet,  is  worth  transcribing : 
"  Though  it  may  seem  hard  for  me,  to  refuse  the 
request  made  by  you  all,  whom  every  one  alone, 
I  should  for  many  respects  be  willing  to  gratify  ; 
yet  as  the  case  standeth,  I  doubt  not  but  with 
the  consent  of  the  most  part  of  you,  I  shall  be  ex- 
cused at  this  time  of  this  task  which  would  be  laid 
upon  me  ;  for  sure  I  am,  that  it  is  not  unknown 
unto  you,  that  I  have  already  undertaken  a  work 
tending  to  the  same  effect,  which  is  in  heroical 
verse  under  the  title  of  a  '  Faery  Queen '  to 
represent  all  the  moral  virtues,  assigning  to  every 
virtue  a  Knight  to  be  the  patron  and  defender  of 
the  same,  in  whose  actions  and  feats  of  arms  and 
chivalry  the  operations  of  that  virtue,  whereof 
he  is  the  protector,  are  to  be  expressed,  and  the 
vices  and  unruly  appetites  that  oppose  themselves 
against  the  same,  to  be  beaten  down  and  over- 
come. Which  work,  as  I  have  already  well 
entered  into,  if  God  shall  please  to  spare  me  life 
that  I  may  finish  it  according  to  my  mind,  your 
wish  will  be  in  some  sort  accomplished,  though 
perhaps  not  so  effectually  as  you  could  desire." 

28 


MVRTLE  GROVE,    YOUGHAL 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Nor  is  this  the  only  testimony  which  goes  to 
prove  that  the  "  Faerie  Queene "  was  largely 
written  in  Ireland.  In  the  sonnets  to  various 
noble  persons  which  Spenser  published  with 
the  poem,  he  avers  more  than  once  that  it  was 
produced  on  "  savadge  soyle,  far  from  Parnasso 
Mount."  Tradition,  then,  has  everything  to  sup- 
port it  when  it  associates  the  solitary  ruins  of  Kil- 
colman  Castle  with  the  creation  of  the  "  Faerie 
Queene."  And  there  is  another  tradition  which 
has  something  in  its  favour.  One  of  the  princi- 
pal sharers  in  the  planting  of  Munster  was  Sir 
W alter  Raleigh,  and  a  large  bay  window  in  his 
house  at  Youghal  is  still  pointed  out  as  the  spot 
where  Spenser  wrote  many  stanzas  of  his  great 
poem.  Certainly  Raleigh  and  Spenser  renewed 
their  friendship  in  Ireland,  and  there  is  nothing 
improbable  in  the  legend  which  makes  the  poet  a 
guest  at  Youghal.  This  theory  makes  it  plausi- 
ble to  regard  Raleigh's  presence  at  Kilcolman  in 
the  nature  of  a  return  visit,  and  if  he  heard  noth- 
ing of  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  in  his  own  home  it  is 
clear  that  the  omission  was  rectified  in  the  poet's. 
Colin  Clout  puts  this  beyond  a  doubt.  Sought 
out  in  his  exile  by  the  "  Shepheard  of  the  Ocean," 
as  Raleigh  called  himself,  Spenser  was  not  loth 
to  play  his  visitor  a  "  pleasant  fit "  on  his  pipes, 

31 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

in  other  words,  to  read  him  his  "  heroical  verse." 
Raleigh  was  quick  to  measure  the  value  of  the 
work  Spenser  had  done,  and  forthwith  urged  him 
to  return  to  London  with  him  and  give  it  to  the 
world.  It  is  impossible  to  resist  a  suspicion  that 
Raleigh  was  thinking  of  his  own  advantage  as 
well  as  Spenser's.  He  had  left  England  under 
the  frown  of  Elizabeth  ;  to  return  as  sponsor  to  a 
poet  who  would  reflect  lustre  on  her  person  and 
her  reign  might  be  a  cheap  method  of  chang- 
ing the  frown  to  a  smile.  In  any  case,  Spenser 
can  hardly  have  wanted  much  persuasion.  He 
had  tasted  exile  for  ten  years  ;  he  had  finished 
enough  of  his  great  task  to  make  a  considerable 
volume  ;  it  might  be  that  as  the  "  Shepheards 
Calender  "  started  the  sequence  of  events  which 
took  him  across  the  Irish  Channel,  the  "  Faerie 
Queene "  would  be  the  means  of  ending  his 
banishment.  Raleigh's  plan  was  approved,  and 
Spenser  returned  to  London  in  his  company, 
bearing  with  him  the  first  three  books  of  the 
"  Faerie  Queene/' 

Much  had  happened  of  consequence  to  Spenser 
during  the  ten  years  of  his  absence.  Sidney  died 
in  1586,  and  Leicester  had  followed  two  years 
later.  These  two  had  befriended  the  poet  with 
their  powerful  influence,  and  now  he  could  reckon 

32 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

on  their  aid  no  longer.  True,  he  had  strengthened 
the  bonds  of  friendship  with  Raleigh,  but  that 
might  avail  him  little  if  Elizabeth  remained 
unkind.  It  is  clear,  then,  that  Spenser  must  have 
realised  how  much  depended  on  the  poetic  work 
he  brought  with  him ;  if  that  should  win  the 
favour  of  the  Queen  all  might  be  well,  and  his 
life-long  search  for  "  more  preferment "  be  suc- 
cessful at  last. 

Arriving  in  England  probably  some  time  in 
November,  1589,  Spenser  lost  no  time  in  arrang- 
ing for  the  publication  of  his  first  instalment  of 
the  "  Faerie  Queene."  The  "  Shepheards  Calen- 
der "  had  been  published  by  one  Hugh  Singleton, 
of  Creed  Lane,  "  at  the  signe  of  the  Gylden 
Tunne  "  ;  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  was  entrusted  to 
the  hands  of  William  Ponsonby,  who  did  business 
at  the  sign  of  the  Bishop's  Head  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  There  is  no  known  reason  why 
Spenser  changed  his  publisher,  but  probably 
Ponsonby  had  attracted  his  attention  by  the  fact 
that  he  had  secured  permission  to  print  Sidney's 
"  Arcadia,"  and  had  already  obtained  the  neces- 
sary license  for  its  publication.  Spenser  did  not 
change  his  publisher  again,  for  although  his 
"  View  of  the  Present  State  of  Ireland  "  was  pro- 
visionally licensed  in  1598,  by  Mathew  Lownes, 

3  33 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

it  was  not  printed  until  1633,  thirty-four  years 
after  the  writer's  death.  To  Ponsonby,  then, 
belonged  the  honour  of  issuing  the  bulk  of  Spen- 
ser's work  to  the  world,  and  he  appears  to  have 
availed  himself  of  his  privilege  with  true  publisher 
instinct.  For  when  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  proved 
to  be  such  a  success,  and  had  set  the  tongues  of 
men  wagging  with  Spenser's  praise,  Ponsonby, 
on  his  own  initiative,  raked  together  such  of  the 
poet's  minor  verses  as  were  circulating  in  manu- 
script and  published  them  in  a  small  volume, 
protesting  to  the  "gentle  reader"  that  his  ob- 
ject in  so  doing  was  "  the  better  increase  and 
accomplishment  of  your  delights."  There  are  no 
records  of  financial  transactions  between  Spenser 
and  his  publisher.  Perhaps  it  is  as  well  there 
are  not ;  there  has  been  weeping  enough  over 
the  disproportion  between  the  fame  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost "  and  the  monetary  recompense  of  its 
author. 

When  gazing  upon  the  entries  of  Spenser's 
various  works  in  the  old  registers  of  Stationers' 
Hall,  the  centuries  that  lie  between  the  Ed- 
wardian and  Elizabethan  eras  seem  to  vanish. 
Here,  still  vividly  legible,  is  the  handwriting  of 
men  who  knew  Ponsonby  and  possibly  the  poet 
by  sight,  who  were  witnesses  of  the  birth  of  books 

34 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

which  have  become  some  of  the  glories  of  English 
literature.  It  was  on  the  1st  of  December,  1589, 
that,  against  the  name  of  "  Master  Ponsonbye," 

THE  FAERIE 

QVEENE. 
Difpofcd  into  twclue  books, 

f  j[l,ii:ttiitg 

XII.  Morall  vcrtucs. 


LONDON 

i  'mcd  for  William  Ponlonbic. 
i    5  p  o. 

TITLE-PAGE  OF  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  "THE  FAEUIE  QUEEVE" 

this  record  was  made  in  one  of  those  ancient 
registers :  "  Entered  for  his  Copye,  a  booke 
intytuled  the  fayrye  Queene  dysposed  into  ocij 
bookes,  etc.  Aucthorysed  under  the  handes  of 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  bothe  the 

35 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

wardens."  It  will  be  seen  that  the  entry  makes 
no  reference  to  the  fact  that  only  three  of  the 
twelve  books  were  to  be  published  on  this  occa- 
sion. Nor  is  there  any  mention  of  the  poet's 
name  ;  only  once,  in  connection  with  the  "  Amo- 
retti "  volume  of  1 594,  was  his  name  associated 
with  his  work  in  the  Stationers'  registers. 

Spenser  sent  his  "  Shepheards  Calender  "  into 
the  world  anonymously,  but  he  claimed  the  par- 
entage of  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  from  the  day  of 
publication.  His  earlier  work  had  been  attrib- 
uted to  various  writers  ;  there  should  be  no  mys- 
tery about  this  child  of  his  fancy.  Not  only 
does  he  avow  his  ownership  of  the  poem  in  his 
famous  explanatory  letter  to  Raleigh,  but  he  sets 
his  name  boldly  to  the  dedication  addressed  to 
the  Queen.  That  dedication  was  amplified  in  a 
later  edition,  its  original  reading  being :  "  To  the 
most  mightie  and  Magnificent  Empresse  Eliza- 
beth, by  the  grace  of  God  Queene  of  England, 
France,  and  Ireland,  Defender  of  the  Faith  etc. 
Her  most  humble  servant :  Ed.  Spenser."  It 
would  be  unjust  to  attribute  this  dedication,  and 
the  laudation  of  Elizabeth  in  the  poem  itself,  to 
base  motives ;  Spenser  was  but  writing  in  har- 
mony with  the  manner  of  his  day.  It  is  true,  as 
Dean  Church  remarked,  that  there  is  nothing  in 

36 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

histoiy  which  can  be  compared  to  the  "gross, 
shameless,  lying  flattery  paid  to  the  Queen,"  but 
the  poet  did  not  set  that  fashion ;  his  only  is  the 
negative  blame  of  not  rising  above  it.  Of  course 
he  wished  to  reap  what  he  could  from  the  har- 
vest he  had  sown,  and  Raleigh  no  doubt  urged 
that  the  "  Faerie  Queene "  should  be  published 
as  completely  as  possible  under  the  patronage  of 
Elizabeth. 

There  was  no  hesitation  or  diffidence  about 
the  welcome  given  to  Spenser's  new  work.  His 
friend,  Gabriel  Harvey,  who  had  been  lukewarm 
to  the  idea  of  the  poem  when  it  was  first  put 
before  him,  was  won  over  completely  : 

"  Collyn,  I  see,  by  thy  new  taken  taske, 
Some  sacred  fuiy  hath  enricht  thy  braynes." 

Raleigh,  as  might  have  been  expected,  poured 
forth  praise  with  liberal  pen,  and  imagined 
Petrarch  weeping  and  Homer  trembling  at  the 
advent  of  this  rival ;  even  Nash,  who  laid  about 
him  usually  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  paused  to 
extol  the  "  stately  tuned  verse  "  of  the  "  Faerie 
Queene."  In  short,  Spenser's  cup  was  once  more 
overflowing  with  praise,  as  it  had  done  ten  years 
before  when  he  had  approved  himself  England's 
new  poet.  But  was  praise  to  be  all  ?  Not  quite. 
Elizabeth,  close-fisted  as  she  was,  evidently 

37 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

thought  she  must  do  something  for  the  poet  who 
had  done  so  much  for  her,  and  it  was  like  Spen- 
ser's luck  that  his  Queen  was  persuaded  to  make 
her  bounty  less  than  she  had  intended.  Tradi- 
tion affirms  that  Elizabeth  ordered  a  goodly  sum 
to  be  given  the  poet,  but  that  on  Lord  Burghley 
murmuring  "  What !  all  this  for  a  song  ? "  the 
order  was  changed  into  "  Well,  let  him  have 
what  is  reason."  In  the  end  Spenser  was  awarded 
a  pension  of  £50  a  year,  which  he  began  to  enjoy 
in  February,  1591. 

A  pension  of '£50  a  year  was  better  than  noth- 
ing, but  that  Spenser  was  bitterly  disappointed 
in  not  being  offered  some  State  employment  in 
his  native  England  is  beyond  doubt.  Raleigh's 
friendship  had  not  been  such  a  great  gain  to  him 
after  all,  or,  perhaps,  it  would  be  kinder  to  say 
that  any  effort  Raleigh  made  was  thwarted  by 
Burghley.  Many  reasons  have  been  offered  for 
Burghley's  dislike  of  Spenser,  but  none  of  those 
reasons  are  so  material  as  the  fact  that  that  dis- 
like existed  in  a  pronounced  form.  Spenser  was 
well  aware  of  the  fact ;  he  hints  the  sad  case  of 
the  man  who  has  his  Prince's  grace  but  wants  his 
Peers';  and  he  hides  up  in  his  lines  now  and  then 
a  sly  bit  of  sweet  revenge  against  Elizabeth's  chief 
minister.  But  there  was  to  be  no  success  for 

38 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

him  at  Court ;  and  when  he  reached  his  lonely 
home  in  Ireland  again,  and  had  time  to  think 
calmly  over  the  experiences  through  which  he 
had  passed,  he  was  enabled  to  reach  the  sane 
conclusion  that  things  were  best  as  they  were. 

"  For,  sooth  to  say,  it  is  no  sort  of  life, 
For  shepheard  fit  to  lead  in  that  same  place, 
Where  each  one  seeks  with  malice,  and  with  strife, 
To  thrust  downe  other  into  foule  disgrace, 
Himselfe  to  raise." 

Early  in  the  year  1591  Spenser  returned  to  his 
Irish  home  at  Kilcolman,  and  before  the  year 
was  out  he  had,  in  "  Colin  Clouts  Come  Home 
Againe,"  found  sufficient  reasons  for  thinking  that 
he  ought  to  be  at  least  moderately  contented 
with  his  lot.  It  is  pleasant  to  suppose  that  he 
was  not  altogether  lonely  in  his  exile.  There 
are  reasons  for  believing  that  a  sister  kept  house 
for  him,  and  probably  congenial  friends,  such  as 
Gabriel  Harvey  and  Ludowick  Bryskett,  visited 
him  now  and  then.  But  for  such  ameliorations 
as  these,  and  his  delight  in  verse,  his  lot  would 
have  been  almost  unendurable.  The  fact  that  he 
was  an  Englishman  would  be  sufficient  to  em- 
bitter the  natives  of  the  district  against  him,  and 
that  feeling  must  have  been  intensified  a  thou- 
sandfold by  his  occupancy  of  Kilcolman,  a  castle 

39 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


which  had  once  belonged  to  the  Earls  of  Des- 
mond. The  poet's  name,  like  that  of  Cromwell, 
is  still  a  word  of  scorn  in  Ireland,  and  such  living 
records  as  we  have  of  his  Kilcolman  days  are 
tinged  with  hatred.  One  inveterate  enemy  he 
had  in  the  person  of  Lord  Roche, 

who  forbad  his  peo-  pie  to 

have  any  trade  or 
•conference  with 


KILCOLMAK  CASTLE 

Spenser  or  his  tenants,  and,  in  true  Irish  fashion, 
killed  an  animal  belonging  to  a  man  who  had 
dared  to  give  the  poet  a  night's  lodging  when 
returning  from  the  Limerick  sessions. 

Rosalind  has  been  lost  sight  of  during  these 
years  of  exile,  but  not  forgotten  by  Spenser. 
The  closing  passages  of  "Colin  Clouts  Come 
Home  Againe"  describe,  as  has  been  seen,  the 
anger  of  Colin's  fellow  shepherds  for  Rosalind's 


40 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

cruel  treatment  of  their  friend,  and  his  defence 
of  his  mistress.  More,  in  almost  his  last  words 
he  bids  his  comrades 

"  Unto  the  world  for  ever  witness  bee 
That  her's  I  die." 

Alas  for  the  inconstancy  of  man  !  Spenser 
was  not  destined  to  remain  faithful  to  his  ideal. 
Not  long  after  he  wrote  those  words  there  crossed 
his  path  a  lady  whose  name  recalled  his  mother 
and  his  Queen,  an  Elizabeth  who  was  to  supplant 
Rosalind  in  his  life  and  verse.  There  is  no  record 
of  his  courtship  save  that  darkly  hinted  at  in  his 
sonnets,  but  that  record  is  sufficient  to  prove 
that  he  had  no  easy  conquest.  At  first  he  ap- 
pears to  have  had  as  little  hope  of  success  as  with 
Rosalind,  and  his  verse  is  overclouded  with  som- 
bre hues  of  anticipated  rejection.  Of  course  he 
pours  out  all  the  wealth  of  his  fancy  in  homage 
to  this  new-found  love. 

"  What  guyle  is  this,  that  those  her  golden  tresses 
She  doth  attyre  under  a  net  of  gold  ; 
And  with  sly  skill  so  cunningly  them  dresses, 
That  which  is  gold,  or  heare,  may  scarce  be  told  ? 
Is  it  that  men's  frayle  eyes,  which  gaze  too  bold, 
She  may  entangle  in  that  golden  snare ; 
And,  being  caught,  may  craftily  enfold 
Theyr  weaker  harts,  which  are  not  wel  aware  ? 
Take  heed,  therefore,  myne  eyes,  how  ye  doe  stare 
41 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Henceforth  too  rashly  on  that  guilefull  nett, 
In  which,  if  ever  ye  entrapped  are, 
Out  of  her  bands  ye  by  no  meanes  shall  get. 
Fondness  it  were  for  any,  being  free, 
To  covet  fetters,  though  they  golden  bee  !  " 

For  all  that,  Spenser  did  covet  them,  and  in 
June,  1594,  he  gladly  assumed  the  bonds  of  wed- 
lock. For  wedding  present  he  gave  his  wife  that 
bridal  ode,  his  "  Epithalamion,"  which  has  no 
rival  in  any  language,  to  be 

"  Unto  her  a  goodly  ornament, 
And  for  short  time  an  endlesse  moniment." 

For  such  a  gift  surely  high-born  ladies  would 
be  content  to  forego  the  choicest  coronet  or  the 
costliest  crown.  Sonnets  and  ode  were  sent 
across  to  Ponsonby  the  publisher,  and  Spenser 
had  not  been  a  married  man  six  months  before 
the  rich  fruit  of  his  love  passion  had  been  gar- 
nered in  the  store  of  English  literature. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  "  Amoretti  and  Epitha- 
lamion "  volume  had  been  entered  at  Stationers' 
Hall,  the  poet  himself  was  in  London  again. 
Perhaps  the  increased  responsibilities  of  wedded 
life  made  him  long  once  again  for  "  more  prefer- 
ment," or  perhaps  the  cause  for  his  visit  must  be 
sought  in  the  fact  that  he  had  finished  another 
three  books  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  and  was 

42 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

anxious  to  see  them  through  the  press  himself. 
The  Stationers'  Hall  record  of  this  second  instal- 
ment of  the  great  poem,  again  placed  to  the 
credit  of  "  Master  Ponsonby,"  reads  :  "20th  die 
Januarii.  Entredfor  his  copie  under  the  handes 
of  the  Wardens,  The  second  parte  of  the  Jfaery 
Qucne  conteining  the  4>  &->  and  6  bookes"  This 
was  in  1596,  and  it  seems  probable  that  Spenser 
remained  in  London  all  through  that  year  and 
into  the  beginning  of  the  next.  The  Earl  of 
Essex  was  in  favour  now,  that  peer  who  had 
succeeded  to  the  possession  of  Leicester  House 
and  renamed  it  after  himself,  and  the  poet  prob- 
ably expected  that  so  powerful  a  friend  would 
pave  the  way  for  him  to  some  profitable  office 
at  home. 

We  have  only  one  picture  of  Spenser  during 
this  second  visit  home,  and  that  was  drawn  by 
himself.  Towards  the  end  of  1596  he  wrote  a 
"  Spousal  verse  "  in  honour  of  the  marriage,  at 
Essex  House,  of  the  two  daughters  of  the  Earl 
of  Worcester,  and  in  that  poem  he  refers  to  him- 
self as  afflicted  by 

"  Sullein  care, 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitlesse  stay 
In  Prince's  Court,  and  expectation  vayne 
Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  doe  fly  away, 
Like  empty  shaddowes,  did  afflict  my  brayne." 
43 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Although  Leicester  had  not  done  much  for 
him,  he  generously  implies,  now  he  is  dead,  that 
he  had  been  a  helpful  friend,  and  thinks  of  him 
as  one  "whose  want  too  well  now  feeles  my 
freendles  case."  An  undercurrent  of  sadness 
runs  through  this  "  spousal  verse ; "  the  poet  is 
conscious  of  the  incongruous  effect ;  he  tries  to 
subdue  the  discord  with  a  higher  note  of  mel- 
ody ;  but  the  feeling  left  when  the  music  ceases 
is  more  akin  to  pathos  than  joy.  For  this,  had 
he  known  it,  was  really  Spenser's  swan-song. 
There  was  to  be  no  life  of  leisured  ease  for  him, 
nor  any  home  in  his  smiling  native  land.  He 
must  return  to  that  half-ruined  castle  on  the 
wild  plain  at  the  foot  of  the  Galtee  hills,  must 
face  the  ill-omened  scowls  of  the  aliens  again, 
and  live  on  as  best  he  might  amid  sights  and 
sounds  of  wretchedness  made  all  the  more  pain- 
ful by  the  remembered  contrasts  of  his  beloved 
England. 

In  one  matter  Spenser  may  have  thought 
himself  fortunate.  With  that  ineptitude  which 
was  ingrained  in  his  character,  King  James  of 
Scotland  actually  asked  that  the  poet  should  be 
arrested  and  punished  for  the  picture  he  had 
drawn  of  his  mother  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  in 
the  character  of  Duessa.  The  passage  which 

44 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

had  so  moved  the  Scots  King  is  that  in  Canto 
IX,  Book  IV,  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene ;"  he 
thought  little,  apparently,  of  the  earlier  sketch 
in  the  eighth  canto  of  the  first  book !  Having 
so  many  friends,  and  probably  some  enemies,  at 
court,  Spenser  no  doubt  heard  of  his  danger, 


A  GRANT  ix  SPENSER'S  HANDWRITING 

and  in  those  uncertain  times  he  must  have  fully 
appreciated  the  narrow  escape  he  had  had.  But 
was  not  Kilcolman  prison  enough  for  such  a 
spirit  ? 

Back,  then,  to  Ireland,  to  Kilcolman,  again, 
and  now  for  the  last  time.  The  date  is  uncer- 
tain, but  it  was  probably  early  in  1597.  He 
lived  quietly  through  that  year,  and  as  the  next 

45 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

year  was  waning  to  its  close  there  came  the 
welcome  news  that  he  had  been  appointed 
Sheriff  of  the  county  of  Cork.  Lord  Burghley 
was  dead,  and  now,  perchance,  he  was  on  the 
highroad  to  that  "  more  preferment "  he  had 
sought  so  long.  In  this  year  of  new  hope  he 
had  prepared,  for  the  Queen's  special  guidance, 
a  brief  paper  on  the  state  of  Ireland,  and  its 
proem  is  the  last  sigh  we  catch  from  his  lips : 
"  Out  of  the  ashes  of  desolation  and  wasteness 
of  this  your  wretched  Realm  of  Ireland,  vouch- 
safe, most  mighty  Empress  our  dread  sovereign, 
to  receive  the  voices  of  a  few  most  unhappy 
ghosts  (of  whom  is  nothing  but  the  ghost  now 
left),  which  lie  buried  in  the  bottom  of  oblivion, 
far  from  the  light  of  your  gracious  sunshine." 
That  deep-shadowed  picture  is  suddenly  illu- 
mined by  the  promise  of  brighter  days  for  the 
poet.  But  it  is  only  such  a  rift  in  the  clouds 
as  heralds  the  denser  darkness  before  the  storm. 
That  autumn  of  1598,  which  seemed  so  full  of 
hope  for  Spenser,  saw  the  culmination  of  another 
of  those  wild  rebellions  which  swept  over  Ireland 
so  frequently  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  Spenser 
was  "  living  among  ruins.  An  English  home  in 
Ireland,  however  fair,  was  a  home  on  the  sides 
of  ^Etna  or  Vesuvius:  it  stood  where  the  lava 

46 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

flood  had  once  passed,  and  upon  not  distant 
fires."  The  poet  was  not  blind  to  the  dangers 
amid  which  he  lived.  His  report  to  Elizabeth, 
and  his  prose  work  giving  a  "View  of  the  Pres- 
ent State  of  Ireland,"  witness  to  his  clear  knowl- 
edge of  the  political  unrest  by  which  he  was 
surrounded.  Still,  he  can  hardly  have  thought 
that  danger  was  so  near,  for  the  wild  onrush  of 
the  rebels  in  October  found  him  utterly  unpre- 
pared to  resist  their  attack  on  Kilcolman  Castle. 
That  attack  was  only  too  successful.  The  poet, 
with  his  wife  and  children,  had  to  fly  for  their 
lives,  and  the  building  was  given  to  the  flames. 
Ben  Jonson  told  that  a  new-born  child  of  Spen- 
ser's perished  in  the  burning  castle,  but  happily 
there  are  no  valid  reasons  for  crediting  that 
assertion;  the  picture  is  dark  enough  without 
that  added  touch. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  think  that  the  Munster 
rebellion  drove  Spenser  from  Ireland.  He  and 
his  family  made  their  way  to  Cork,  and  there 
they  were  secure  from  further  attack.  The  fact 
that  his  wife  and  children  did  not  leave  the 
country  is  proof  that  the  rebels  had  done  their 
worst  by  burning  Kilcolman,  and  that  there  was 
no  more  to  fear  from  them.  Also,  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  Sir  Thomas  Norreys,  the  Pres- 

47 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

ident  of  Munster,  sought  safety  in  Cork,  thereby 
bringing  upon  himself  a  severe  rebuke  from  the 
Government  for  his  cowardice.  If  Cork  had 
not  been  a  secure  retreat,  there  would  have 
been  no  sting  in  the  rebuke.  No,  it  was  not 
the  rebellion  which  sent  Spencer  across  the 
Irish  Channel  again  ;  he  went  as  the  bearer  of  a 
dispatch  from  Sir  Thomas  Norreys,  being  chosen 
for  that  errand,  probably,  because  his  personal 
knowledge  might  be  useful  to  the  authorities 
in  London.  Norreys  wrote  his  dispatch  on  De- 
cember 9th  and  committed  it  to  Spenser's  care. 
The  poet  was  going  home  for  the  last  time. 

Between  the  writing  of  the  dispatch  and 
its  delivery  at  Whitehall,  fifteen  days  elapsed. 
Perchance  the  poet  had  a  stormy  passage,  and 
with  nerves  and  body  shattered  by  the  bitter 
experiences  of  the  previous  months,  this  may 
have  set  the  seal  on  his  fate.  He  was  but  forty- 
six  years  old ;  some  explanation  seems  necessary 
for  his  being  suddenly  cut  down  in  the  prime  of 
life.  He  was  able,  it  seems,  to  deliver  his  dis- 
patch on  December  24th,  and  then  we  lose  sight 
of  him  until  the  16th  of  the  following  month. 
On  that  day  he  died. 

Tradition,  in  the  person  of  Ben  Jonson,  has 
invested  the  death-bed  of  Spenser  with  uncalled- 

48 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

for  and  unbelievable  pathos.  "  He  died,"  Jonson 
told  Drumrnond,  "  for  want  of  bread  in  King 
Street ;  he  refused  20  pieces  sent  him  by  my 
Lord  Essex,  and  said  he  was  sure  he  had  no 
time  to  spend  them."  This  legend  of  starvation 
was  repeated  by  other  writers,  but  no  evidence 
has  been  adduced  in  its  support.  No  student 
of  Spenser's  life  could  so  far  forget  his  facts  as 
to  affirm  that  the  poet  had  attained  a  state  of 
affluence  at  his  death ;  on  the  other  hand,  it  is 
impossible  for  him  to  believe  that  death  ensued 
from  actual  want  of  bread.  For,  consider  the 
facts  of  the  case.  Spenser  was  now  Sheriff  of 
the  county  of  Cork,  and  he  had  come  to  London 
as  messenger  of  the  President  of  Munster  to  the 
English  Court.  If  he  had  been  in  extreme  mon- 
etary need  on  his  arrival  in  London,  there  were 
many  in  the  capital  who  would  at  once  have 
relieved  his  wants.  The  scene  of  his  death,  a 
tavern  in  King  Street,  Westminster,  also  tells 
against  the  starvation  legend.  King  Street,  then 
the  only  highway  between  the  Royal  Palace 
of  Whitehall  and  the  Parliament  House,  was 
a  street  of  considerable  importance,  and  Spen- 
ser's presence  there  is  explained  by  S tow's  re- 
mark that  "for  the  accommodation  of  such  as 
come  to  town  in  the  terms,  here  are  some  good 

4  49 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

inns  for  their  reception,  and  not  a  few  taverns 
for  entertainment,  as  is  not  unusual  in  places  of 


SIXTEENTH  CEXTURY  PLAX  OF  WESTMINSTER.     SHOWING  KIVG 
STREET,   WHERE  SPEXSER   DIED 

great  confluence."  There  are  ample  proofs,  too, 
that  King  Street  was  the  usual  resort  of  those 
who  were  messengers  to  the  Court,  such  as 

50 


Spenser  then  was.  Happily,  then,  there  are  no 
grounds  for  believing  that  the  poet  died  for 
want  of  bread ;  it  was  tragedy  enough  that 
such  a  life  should  have  gone  out  at  so  early 
an  age. 

There  was  but  one  burial  place  for  Spenser  — 
that  Abbey  in  which  the  dust  of  Chaucer  had 
already  consecrated  Poets'  Corner  to  be  the  sep- 
ulture of  England's  sweet  singers.  It  is  said 
that  Spenser  asked  a  resting-place  near  that  sa- 
cred dust,  and  such  a  wish  was  natural  in  one 
who  knew  he  was  Chaucer's  lineal  successor. 
Lord  Essex  defrayed  the  charges  of  the  funeral,  ' 
and  poets  bore  the  pall  and  cast  upon  the  coffin 
their  elegies  and  the  pens  with  which  they  were 
written.  Although  Spenser  had  achieved  his 
chief  work  on  Irish  soil,  it  was  given  him  to 
rest  at  home  at  last. 

"  'T  is  well ;  't  is  something  ;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid." 

According  to  a  passage  in  Browne's  "  Britan- 
nia's Pastorals,"  Spenser  was  fated  to  be  robbed 
of  Queen  Elizabeth's  bounty  even  in  the  grave. 
Browne  narrates  how  the  Queen  gave  explicit 
orders  for  the  building  of  a  costly  tomb  over  the 
poet's  remains,  and  then  adds  : 

51 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  The  will  had  been  performance,  had  not  Fate, 
That  never  knew  how  to  commiserate, 
Suborned  curst  Avarice  to  lie  in  wait 
For  that  rich  prey  (gold  is  a  taking  bait)  : 
Who,  closely  lurking  like  a  subtle  snake 
Under  the  covert  of  a  thorny  brake, 
Seized  on  the  factor  by  fair  Thetis  sent, 
And  robbed  our  Colin  of  his  monument." 

But  Spenser  did  not  lack  for  a  monument, 
although   it  was   more  than  twenty  years  after 


SPENSER'S  TOMB 

his  death  before  such  a  memorial  was  supplied 
through  the  generosity  of  Anne  Clifford,  Count- 
ess of  Dorset.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  after, 
that  monument  had  fallen  into  decay,  but  its 

52 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

appearance  is  faithfully  reproduced  by  the  exist- 
ing marble,  which  was  erected  by  subscription  in 
1778  at  the  instigation  of  the  poet  Mason.  It 
will  be  seen  that  the  inscription  differs  in  two 
particulars  from  the  accepted  dates  of  Spenser's 
life,  giving  1553  instead  of  1552  as  the  date  of  his 
birth,  and  1598  instead  of  1599  as  the  year  of  his 
death. 

Several  portraits  (in  oils)  of  Spenser  are  in  ex- 
istence, and  at  least  one  miniature.  The  latter 
may  be  dismissed  as  wholly  unsatisfactory.  There 
is  nothing  of  the  Elizabethan  atmosphere  about 
it,  and  its  subject  is  a  nondescript  character  wholly 
out  of  keeping  with  the  pronounced  personality 
of  the  author  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene."  The  other 
portraits  may  be  divided  into  two  classes,  repre- 
sented respectively  by  the  canvas  at  Duplin 
Castle  and  that  which  was  formerly  in  the  posses- 
sion of  Lord  Chesterfield.  It  is  impossible  to 
reconcile  these  portraits  ;  they  are  of  men  utterly 
dissimilar  ;  they  have  absolutely  nothing  in  com- 
mon. All  who  have  compared  them  must  regard 
it  as  little  short  of  a  misfortune  that  the  Lord 
Chesterfield  painting  is  that  which  has  generally 
been  followed  in  the  engraved  portraits  of  the 
poet ;  it  is  hardly  less  satisfactory  than  the  mini- 
ature. On  the  other  hand,  the  Duplin  portrait 

53 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

seems  to  prove  its  own  authenticity.  There  is  an 
excellent  replica  of  this  portrait,  from  the  brush 
of  Sir  Henry  Raeburn,  in  the  possession  of  Earl 
.Spencer  at  Althorp,  and  the  accompanying  repro- 
duction of  a  photograph  taken  recently  from  that 


EDMUND  SPENSER 
From  the  Portrait  in  the  possession  of  Earl  Spencer 

canvas  may  be  confidently  left  to  create  its  own 
justification  as  the  most  reliable  likeness  of  the 
poet.  There  is  a  note  on  the  back  of  the  portrait, 
which,  taken  in  conjunction  with  the  fact  that 
Raeburn  made  the  copy  in  1820,  appears  to  offer 
inferential  evidence  in  favour  of  this  likeness* 


54 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

The  note  is  to  the  following  effect :  "  Another 
original  portrait  of  this  great  poet  was  known  to 
have  been  at  Castle  Saffron  in  the  county  of  Cork, 
Ireland,  situated  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Kilcol- 
man  Castle,  the  residence  of  Spenser,  which  was 
destroyed  by  fire  before  his  death.  This  picture, 
in  consequence  of  the  roof  of  Castle  Saffron  fall- 
ing in  from  neglect,  was  utterly  destroyed,  a  fact 
ascertained  by  Admiral  Sir  Benj.  Halliwell,  dur- 
ing the  period  of  his  command  in  chief  of  the  port 
of  Cork  in  1818,  at  the  request  of  George  John 
Earl  Spencer,  K.G." 

Perhaps  the  chief  evidence  for  the  authenticity 
of  the  portrait  accompanying  these  pages  is  the 
surprising  manner  in  which  it  harmonises  with 
the  character  of  Spenser.  This,  at  any  rate,  is  a 
man  of  whom  the  "  Faerie  Queene  "  might  be 
expected.  There  is  an  aloofness  in  the  expression 
which  may  well  have  mirrored  to  the  outward 
world  the  spirit  of  one  who  dwelt  apart  in  a 
"happy  land  of  Faerie." 


55 


II 

THE   HOME   OF  SIR  PHILIP   SIDNEY 


II 

THE   HOME -OF  SIR   PHILIP  SIDNEY 

"  For  a  dearer  life 
Never  in  battle  hath  been  offered  up, 
Since  in  like  cause  and  in  unhappy  day, 
By  Zutphen's  walls  the  peerless  Sidney  foil." 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY  is  the  enigma  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan age.  His  span  of  life  was  but  a  brief 
thirty-two  years,  and  as  the  first  twenty  years  of 
any  man's  career  are  but  a  preparation  for  the 
activities  of  after-life,  Sidney  had  only  twelve 
years  in  which  to  impress  himself  on  English 
history  and  win  his  renown.  But  they  sufficed. 
After  the  lapse  of  more  than  three  centuries  his 
fame  shines  as  brightly  in  the  annals  of  Eng- 
land as  that  of  Spenser,  of  Raleigh,  of  Drake, 
of  Shakespeare,  and  of  other  Elizabethan  im- 
mortals, against  whose  names  there  are  recorded 
achievements  far  surpassing  anything  Sidney 
ever  accomplished. 

As  great  deeds  went  in  England  in  the  closing 
half  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Sidney  did  nothing 

59 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

great.  He  made  the  grand  tour  as  a  recognised 
necessary  part  of  a  liberal  education  in  those 
days  ;  he  was  sent  to  Vienna  on  a  small  embassy 
of  condolence ;  he  was  appointed  cup-bearer  to 
Queen  Elizabeth  ;  he  addressed  a  surprisingly 
bold  epistle  to  his  sovereign  in  opposition  to  her 
contemplated  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Anjou  ; 
and,  finally,  as  Earl  Leicester's  companion,  he 
was  named  Governor  of  Flushing.  This  record, 
even  with  his  literary  work  thrown  in,  offers  no 
explanation  of  the  persistence  of  Sidney's  fame. 
He  lives,  really,  by  the  heroism  of  his  death, 
and  that  heroism  was  the  natural  flower  of  his 
rare  character,  and  that  character  was  moulded 
into  its  fine  quality  by  a  wise  father  and  a  ten- 
der mother  in  Sidney's  happy  boyhood  days  at 
Penshurst. 

When  Musidorus,  escaped  from  shipwreck, 
accompanied  his  two  shepherd  friends  to  the 
house  of  Kalender  in  Arcadia,  he  found  himself 
in  the  presence  of  a  building  made  "  of  fair  and 
strong  stone,  not  effecting  so  much  any  extraordi- 
nary kind  of  fineness  as  an  honorable  presenting 
of  a  firm  stateliness.  The  lights,  doors,  and  stairs 
rather  directed  to  the  use  of  the  guest  than  to 
the  eye  of  the  artificer,  and  yet  as  the  one  chiefly 
heeded  so  the  other  not  neglected  ;  each  place 

60 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

handsome  without  loathsomeness  ;  not  so  dainty 
as  not  to  be  trod  on,  nor  yet  slubberd  up  with 
good  fellow-ships  ;  all  more  lasting  than  beautiful 


PENSHURST  VILLAGE 

but  that  the  consideration  of  the  exceeding  last- 
ingness  made  the  eye  believe  it  was  exceedingly 
beautiful.  The  back  side  of  the  house  was  neither 
field,  garden,  nor  orchard,  or  rather  it  was  both 
field,  garden,  and  orchard,  for  as  soon  as  the  de- 

61 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

scending  of  the  stairs  had  delivered  them  (that  is, 
Musidorus  and  Kalender)  down  they  came  into 
a  place  cunningly  set  with  trees  of  the  most 
taste-pleasing  fruits  ;  but  scarcely  had  they  taken 
that  into  their  consideration  but  that  they  were 
suddenly  stepped  into  a  delicate  green  thicket, 
and  behind  the  thickets  again  new  beds  of 
flowers,  which  being  underneath  the  trees  were 
to  them  a  pavilion,  and  they  were  to  the  trees  a 
mosaical  floor,  so  that  it  seemed  that  that  art 
therein  would  needs  be  delighted  by  counterfeit- 
ing his  enemy  error  and  making  order  in  confu- 
sion. In  the  midst  of  all  the  place  was  a  fair 
pond,  whose  shaking  crystal  was  a  perfect  mirror 
to  all  the  other  beauties,  so  that  it  bare  show  of 
two  gardens,  one  in  deed  the  other  in  shadows." 

So  wrote  Sidney  in  the  "  Arcadia,"  and  the 
model  he  had  in  mind  was  undoubtedly  that 
stately  Penshurst  home  in  which  he  had  his 
birth. 

In  all  the  fair  county  of  Kent  there  is  prob- 
ably no  more  picturesque  village  than  Penshurst. 
Its  beauty  is  that  of  the  past.  Modernity  has 
no  footing  here.  Elizabethan  types  are  renewed 
in  an  Edwardian  age.  As  the  daisy  of  to-day 
fashions  itself  by  unerring  heredity  into  the  like- 
ness of  the  daisy  of  five  centuries  ago.  so  the 

62 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Penshurst  cottage  homes  of  the  twentieth  century 
perpetuate  the  semblance  of  those  village  homes 
which  clustered  about  the  mansion  of  the  Sidneys 
in  the  sixteenth  century.  Example  and  authority 
account  for  this  persistence  of  type.  The  ex- 
ample is  there  in  the  quaint  half-timbered  dwell- 
ings of  the  fifteenth  century  which  overhang  the 
pathway  that  gives  entrance  to  the  quiet  church- 
yard ;  the  authority,  in  the  wise  determination 
of  the  lord  of  the  manor  that  any  old  building 
which  has  become  unfit  for  habitation  shall  be 
replaced  by  one  bearing  exact  likeness  to  that 
it  has  displaced.  Thus  the  newest  houses  look 
as  ancient  as  the  oldest. 

Penshurst  Place  is  not  exempt  from  this  rule 
which  enforces  continuity  with  the  past.  Al- 
though various  additions  have  been  made  to  the 
mansion,  the  harmony  of  its  outward  semblance 
is  undisturbed.  Between  the  old  banqueting 
hall  of  the  fourteenth  century  and  the  new  wing 
of  the  nineteenth  century  there  is  no  discord  ; 
loyalty  to  the  past  has  shaped  every  new  stone 
and  fitted  it  so  deftly  into  its  place  that  even  the 
old  builders  themselves  would  be  deceived  could 
they  revisit  the  work  of  their  hands. 

Although  Penshurst  has  been  the  residence 
of  a  noble  family  almost  from  the  time  of  the 

63 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Norman  Conquest,  it  was  not  until  the  middle 
of  the  sixteenth  century  that  it  became  the 
home  of  the  Sidneys.  It  was  to  Sir  William 
Sidney,  a  great  favourite  and  faithful  servant  of 
Henry  VIII,  that  Edward  VI,  in  the  year  of 
his  death,  granted  the  manor  of  Penshurst.  But 


PENSHURST  PLACE 

Sir  William  had  brief  enjoyment  of  the  gift, 
dying  as  he  did  in  the  year  in  which  he  received 
it.  His  son,  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  the  father  of 
Philip,  succeeded,  and  he,  in  1585,  erected  the 
tower  which  now  forms  the  central  feature  of 
the  north  front.  Over  the  gateway  of  this  tower 
is  still  to  be  seen  a  stone  tablet  bearing  an  in- 
scription which  reads  thus : 

64 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  The  most  religious  and  renowned  Prince 
Edward  the  Sixth,  Kinge  of  England,  France 
and  Ireland,  gave  this  house  of  Pencester  with 
the  manners,  landes  and  appurtences  thereunto 
belongings,  unto  his  trustye  and  well-beloved 
servant,  Syr  William  Sidney,  Knight  Bannaret, 
servinge  him  from  the  tyme  of  his  birth  unto  his 
coronation,  in  the  offices  of  chamberlayne  and 
stuarde  of  his  household,  in  commemoration  of 
which  most  worthie  and  famous  Kinge,  Sir 
Henry  Sidney,  Knight  of  the  most  noble  order 
of  the  garter,  Lord  President  of  the  Council 
established  in  the  Marches  of  Wales,  sonne  and 
heyre  of  the  afore  named  Syr  William  Sidney, 
caused  this  tower  to  be  buylded  and  that  most 
excellent  Prince's  arms  to  be  errected  anno 
domino  1585." 

Other  additions  to  Penshurst  owe  their  exist- 
ence to  Sir  Henry  Sidney,  but  it  is  his  greatest 
glory  that  here  he  moulded  the  character  of  his 
illustrious  son,  Philip.  The  room  in  which  he  was 
born  on  November  29,  1554,  is  still  pointed  out, 
and  scattered  through  the  house  are  portraits  and 
relics  which  serve  the  imagination  liberally  in 
its  pleasant  task  of  picturing  the  image  of  this 
noble  youth.  Among  the  family  manuscripts  is 

5  65 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

one  document  which  goes  far  towards  explaining 
how  lie  became  what  we  know  him  to  have  been. 
This  is  the  first  letter  ever  written  by  Sir  Henry 
to  his  son,  then  at  school  at  Shrewsbury,  Eng- 
land, and  as  the  lapse  of  three  centuries  has  not 
rendered  its  advice  obsolete  nor  its  spirit  less 
worthy  of  imitation,  it  may  be  quoted  almost  in 
full.  After  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  two 
letters  from  his  son,  one  in  Latin  and  the  other 
in  French,  Sir  Henry  proceeds  : 

"  Since  this  is  my  first  letter  that  ever  I  did 
write  to  you,  I  will  not  that  it  be  all  empty  of 
some  advices,  which  my  natural  care  for  you  pro- 
voketh  me  to  wish  you  to  follow,  as  documents 
to  you  in  this  your  tender  age.  Let  your  first 
action  be  the  lifting  of  your  mind  to  Almighty 
God  by  hearty  prayer ;  and  feelingly  digest  the 
words  you  speak  in  prayer,  with  continued  medi- 
tation and  thinking  of  Him  to  whom  you  pray 
and  of  the  matter  for  which  you  pray.  And  use 
this  as  an  ordinary  act,  and  at  an  ordinary  hour, 
whereby  the  time  itself  shall  put  you  in  remem- 
brance to  do  that  which  you  are  accustomed  to 
do  in  that  time.  Apply  your  study  to  such 
hours  as  your  discreet  master  doth  assign  you, 
earnestly ;  and  the  time  I  know  he  will  so  limit 

66 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

as  shall  be  both  sufficient  for  your  learning  and 
safe  for  your  health.  And  mark  the  sense  of 
the  matter  of  that  you  read,  as  well  as  the  words. 
So  shall  you  both  enrich  your  tongue  with  words 
and  your  wit  with  matter ;  and  judgment  will 
grow  as  years  groweth  in  you.  Be  humble  and 
obedient  to  your  master  for  unless  you  frame 
yourself  to  obey  others,  yea,  and  feel  in  yourself 
what  obedience  is,  you  shall  never  be  able  to 
teach  others  how  to  obey  you.  Be  courteous 
of  gesture  and  affable  to  all  men,  with  diversity 
of  reverence  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  per- 
son :  there  is  nothing  that  winneth  so  much  with 
so  little  cost.  Use  moderate  diet,  so  as  after 
your  meal  you  may  find  your  wit  fresher  and  not 
duller,  and  your  body  more  lively  and  not  more 
heavy.  Seldom  drink  wine,  and  yet  sometimes 
do,  lest  being  enforced  to  drink  upon  the  sudden 
you  should  find  yourself  inflamed.  Use  exercise 
of  body  yet  such  as  is  without  peril  of  your 
joints  and  bones,  it  will  increase  your  force  and 
enlarge  your  breath.  Delight  to  be  cleanly,  as 
well  in  all  parts  of  your  body  as  in  your  gar- 
ments :  it  shall  make  you  grateful  in  each  com- 
pany, and  otherwise  loathsome.  Give  yourself 
to  be  merry  for  you  degenerate  from  your  father 
if  you  find  not  yourself  most  able  in  wit  and 

67 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

body  and  to  do  anything  when  you  be  most 
merry ;  but  let  your  mirth  be  ever  void  of  all 
scurrility  and  biting  words  to  any  man,  for  a 
wound  given  by  a  word  is  often-times  harder 
to  be  cured  than  that  which  is  given  with  the 
sword.  .  .  .  Think  upon  every  word  that  you 
will  speak  before  you  utter  it,  and  remember 
how  nature  hath  ramparted  up,  as  it  were,  the 
tongue  with  teeth,  lips,  yea,  and  hair  without 
the  lips,  and  all  betokening  reins  or  bridles  for 
the  loose  use  of  that  member.  Above  all  things 
tell  no  untruth  ;  even,  in  trifles :  the  custom  of 
it  is  naughty.  .  .  .  Remember,  my  son,  the  noble 
blood  you  are  descended  of,  by  your  mother's 
side ;  and  think  that  only  by  virtuous  life  and 
good  action  you  may  be  an  ornament  to  that 
illustrious  family,  and  otherwise,  through  vice  and 
sloth  you  shall  be  counted  'labes  generis,'  one 
of  the  greatest  curses  that  can  happen  to  man." 

To  this  notable  letter,  Philip's  mother,  Lady 
Mary  Sidney,  added  a  postscript  which  is  as  re- 
markable for  its  loving  reverence  for  her  husband 
as  for  its  affectionate  solicitude  for  her  son.  Let- 
ter and  postscript,  reflecting  as  in  a  mirror  the 
characters  of  Sir  Henry  and  Lady  Sidney,  ex- 
plain the  high  abstracted  life  of  their  son  and 

68 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

give  us  the  clue  to  the  heroism  of  his  death.  It 
is  easy  to  imagine  the  days  of  his  boyhood  at 
Penshurst.  Ever  before  him  was  the  image  of 
parents  who  never  faltered  in  their  love  for  each 
other  and  were  never  divided  in  the  authority 
with  which  they  shaped  the  lives  of  their  chil- 
dren. Yet  that  authority  was  far  removed  from 
austerity.  Firm  it  doubtless  was,  but  loving, 
and  seasoned  with  innocent  mirth.  Nothing  of 
good  repute  was  lacking  in  the  childhood  envi- 
ronment of  Philip  Sidney ;  from  his  earliest  days 
he  breathed  the  atmosphere  of  a  home  where  all 
that  tended  to  make  life  joyous  and  strong  had 
free  entrance. 

Whether  roaming  about  the  park  or  through 
the  spacious  rooms  of  this  old-world  mansion, 
the  visitor  is  ever  confronted  with  memorials  of 
an  age  of  men  long  passed  away.  When  Philip 
Sidney  was  born,  an  oak  was  planted  in  the  park 
to  celebrate  the  coming  of  Sir  Henry's  heir,  and 
Ben  Jonson,  in  his  day,  could  describe  it  as 

"  That  taller  tree  which  of  a  truth  was  set 
At  his  great  birth,  when  all  the  muses  met." 

That  birthday  tree  is  gone ;  it  was  cut  down  in 
1768 ;  but  there  still  exists  the  "  Sidney  Oak," 
a  veteran  of  many  centuries,  in  whose  shadow 
Philip  often  sat  while  framing  his  own  verse  or 

69 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

discussing  with  Spenser  the  stanzas  of  the 
"  Shepherds  Calender "  or  the  scheme  of  the 
"  Faerie  Queene."  For  when  Spenser  returned 
to  London  after  his  sojourn  in  the  north  of 
England  on  the  completion  of  his  college  days 
at  Cambridge,  and  was  casting  about  for  an  oc- 
cupation in  life,  he  was  the  guest  of  Sidney  at 
Penshurst,  and  there  saw  in  tangible  flesh  the 
high-souled  man  who  became  for  him  the  ideal 
of  a  perfect  knight  and  gentleman.  It  was  at 
Penshurst,  there  is  every  reason  for  believing, 
that  Spenser  prepared  his  "  Shepherds  Calender  " 
for  the  press,  and  his  companionship  with  Sidney 
there  accounts  for  his  issuing  that  work  under  the 
shelter  of  a  dedication  to  his  "  noble  and  virtuous  " 
host.  It  accounts,  too,  for  Sidney  figuring  so 
largely  in  the  little  poem  with  which  he  prefaced 
the  book. 

"  Goe,  little  booke  !  thy  selfe  present, 
As  child  whose  parent  is  unkent, 
To  him  that  is  the  president 
Of  Noblesse  and  of  chevalree. 
And  if  that  Envie  barke  at  thee, 
As  sure  it  will,  for  succoure  flee 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  wing  ; 
And  asked  who  thee  forth  did  bring, 
A  shepherds  swaine,  saye,  did  thee  sing 
All  as  his  straying  flocke  he  fedde  ; 
And,  when  his  honor  has  thee  redde, 
Crave  pardon  for  my  hardyhedde. 
70 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Among  the  rich  and  rare  collections  of  armour 
adorning  the  corridors  and  rooms  of  the  mansion 
is  Sidney's  helmet,  bearing  his  familiar  porcupine 
crest,  and  elsewhere  is  to  be  seen  a  fragment  of 
his  shaving-glass,  enclosed  in  a  rude  frame.  Then 
there  are  numerous  portraits  of  the  hero,  in  one 
of  which  he  has  for  companion  his  brother  Robert, 
the  first  Earl  of  Leicester.  Not  less  interesting 
are  the  portraits  of  his  mother,  Lady  Mary  Sid- 
ney, and  that  sister  Mary,  Countess  of  Pembroke, 
for  whose  amusement  in  the  time  of  her  travail 
with  her  first-born  he  wrote  his  "Arcadia." 

Each  stately  apartment  of  Penshurst  is  replete 
with  historical  relics.  In  the  ballroom,  which  is 
the  first  to  be  visited,  there  is  a  bushel  measure 
made  from  gun  metal  captured  in  the  fight  with 
the  Spanish  Armada,  and  overhead  there  hang 
three  priceless  chandeliers,  the  gift  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  to  Sir  Henry  Sidney.  It  is  comforting 
to  know  that  her  Majesty  did  give  Sir  Henry 
something,  for  it  is  certain  that  his  services  on  her 
behalf  as  Lord  President  of  Wales  and  Lord 
Deputy  of  Ireland  made  him  immensely  poorer 
in  worldly  goods  if  they  enriched  him  with  honour. 
But  it  is  probable  that  those  chandeliers  were 
much  more  than  paid  for  by  the  hospitality  Eliz- 
abeth received  on  her  visit  to  Penshurst.  The 

73 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

apartment  next  to  the  ballroom  is  still  known 
as  Queen  Elizabeth's  Room,  and  here  may  yet 
be  seen  the  suite  of  furniture  made  specially  in 
honour  of  her  visit  and  for  her  use.  Her  arm- 
chair is  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  and  by 
the  aid  of  a  portrait  on  the  wall  it  is  easy  to  recall 
the  figure  of  the  Virgin  Queen  and  seat  her  once 
more  in  its  capacious  depths.  Close  by  stands 
the  card-table  for  which  Elizabeth  worked  the 
embroidered  top,  and  in  front  of  that  is  the  black 
velvet  stool  upon  which  Queen  Victoria  knelt  at 
her  coronation  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Other 
royal  relics  may  be  sought  in  the  tiny  Pages' 
Closet  which  opens  off  the  Tapestry  Room.  This 
small  chamber  has  now  become  the  storeroom  for 
the  family  china,  and  here  are  preserved  Queen 
Elizabeth's  dessert  service  and  Queen  Anne's 
breakfast  set.  The  dessert  service  has  for  its 
ground  color  a  lovely  shade  of  green  such  as  is 
not  seen  in  modern  china,  and  the  breakfast  set 
of  Anne  is  of  exquisite  blue  and  white  porcelain. 
In  the  picture  gallery,  a  noble  apartment 
ninety  feet  in  length,  are  sufficient  objects  of 
virtu  to  make  the  fame  of  two  or  three  museums. 
Side  by  side  may  be  seen  a  quaint  old  clock  with 
a  horizontal  brass  face  and  a  curious  old  lamp 
which  was  intended  to  measure  time  rather  than 

74 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

shed  light.  At  the  opposite  ends  of  the  widened 
recess  are  two  costly  cabinets,  and  near  one  of 
these  is  a  richly  decorated  spinet  which  was  made 
in  Rome  in  1 6'80  for  Christina,  Queen  of  Sweden. 
In  this  room,  too,  are  a  pair  of  riding-boots  which 
belonged  to  Algernon  Sidney,  that  premature 
republican  who  lost  his  head  on  the  testimony  of 
a  book  he  had  written  but  had  not  published. 

Penshurst  has  gathered  other  interesting  asso- 
ciations than  those  immediately  concerned  with 
Sir  Philip  Sidney.  Ben  Jonson  was  a  frequent 
visitor  here,  and  his  visits  have  left  their  impress 
on  his  verse.  In  "  The  Forest,"  for  example,  there 
occurs  a  lengthy  description  of  Penshurst,  in  the 
midst  of  which  we  happen  upon  a  pleasing  picture 
of  the  kindly  relationship  which  existed  between 
its  noble  owners  and  the  retainers  of  the  estate. 

"  And  though  thy  walls  be  of  the  country  stone, 
They  're  reared  with  no  man's  ruin,  no  man's  groan; 
There  's  none  that  dwell  about  them  wish  them  down. 
But  all  come  in,,  the  farmer  and  the  clown, 
And  no  one  empty-handed  to  salute 
Thy  lord  and  lady,  though  they  have  no  suit. 
Some  bring  a  capon,  some  a  rural  cake, 
Some  nuts,  some  apples,  some  think  they  make 
The  better  cheeses,  bring  them  ;   or  else  send 
By  their  ripe  daughters,  whom  they  would  commend 
This  way  to  husbands,  and  whose  baskets  bear 
An  emblem  of  themselves  in  plum  or  pear." 
77 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Nor  should  Algernon  Sidney  be  forgotten. 
Next  to  Sir  Philip  he  is  the  best  known  mem- 
ber of  his  famous  house.  Even  in  his  youth  he 
was  credited  with  a  "  huge  deal  of  wit  and  much 
sweetness  of  nature."  Among  the  stanchest  of 
his  friends  was  William  Penn,  the  founder  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  it  was  at  Penshurst  the  two 
drew  up  between  them  the  fundamental  articles 
of  the  Pennsylvania  constitution.  He  had  bit- 
ter experience  of  the  gratitude  of  kings.  Two 
of  Charles's  children  found  a  haven  at  Pens- 
hurst  when  the  fortunes  of  the  Royal  house 
were  wrecked  by  the  Commonwealth,  and  a 
third,  Charles  II,  rewarded  the  brutal  Judge 
Jeffreys  with  a  costly  ring  for  his  services  at 
the  mock  trial  which  sent  Algernon  to  the 
scaffold  ! 

One  other  memory  links  itself  with  Penshurst, 
and  this  time  it  is  a  woman's  fair  form  that  fills 
the  imagination.  Algernon  Sidney  had  a  sister 
named  Dorothy,  and  it  was  her  fate  to  awaken 
a  passionate  love  in  the  heart  of  Edmund  Waller. 
He  wooed  her  with  all  a  poet's  intensity,  and  bent 
his  muse  to  the  service  of  his  desire.  Penshurst 
and  his  poems  perpetuate  his  passion  to  this  day. 
In  the  affected  language  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, he  christened  his  ideal  with  the  name  of 

78 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Saccharissa,  and  Lady  Dorothy  Sidney  has  lost 
her  title  in  her  lover's  endearing  epithet.     Over 


SACCHARISSA 's  SITTIXG-ROOM 


the  gateway  of  the  inner  courtyard  is  the  window 
of  "  Saccharissa's  Sitting-room,"  and  the  stately 
avenue  of  lofty  beeches  by  which  the  mansion  is 

79 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

approached  from  the  east  is  known  as  "  Saccha- 
rissa's  Walk."  It  is  to  that  avenue  Waller  alludes 
in  the  following  lines  : 


SACCHARISSA'S  WALK 

"  Ye  lofty  beeches,  tell  this  matchless  dame, 
That  if  together  ye  fed  all  one  flame, 
It  would  not  equalize  the  hundredth  part 
Of  what  her  eyes  have  kindled  in  my  heart ! 
80 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Go,  boy,  and  carve  this  passion  on  the  bark 
Of  yonder  tree,  which  stands  the  sacred  mark 
Of  noble  Sidney's  birth  ;  and  when  such  benign, 
Such  more  than  mortal-making  stars  did  shine  ; 
That  there  they  cannot  but  for  ever  prove 
The  monument  and  pledge  of  humble  love  : 
His  humble  love,  whose  hope  shall  ne'er  rise  higher, 
Than  for  a  pardon  that  he  dares  admire." 

It  was  all  in  vain.  Neither  Waller's  bold 
hyperbole  nor  his  pretence  of  humility  had  any 
power  over  Saccharissa's  heart.  She  looked  for 
a  higher  social  status  than  Waller  could  give, 
and  eventually  became  the  Countess  of  Sunder- 
land.  But  Waller  had  his  revenge.  When  Sac- 
charissa  had  lost  both  her  husband  and  her  youth, 
she,  on  meeting  the  poet,  thoughtlessly  asked 
when  he  would  again  write  such  verses  upon  her. 
"When,"  replied  he,  "you  are  as  young,  Madam, 
and  as  handsome  as  you  were  then." 


81 


Ill 


MEMORIALS    OF    WILLIAM    PENN 


Ill 

MEMORIALS   OF  WILLIAM   PENN 

"  It  should  be  sufficient  for  the  glory  of  William  Penn,  that  he 
stands  upon  record  as  the  most  humane,  the  most  moderate,  and 
the  most  pacific  of  all  rulers."  LORD  JEFFREY. 

DEEP  in  a  shady  dell,  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  that  village  of  Chalfont  St.  Giles  in  which 
Milton  took  refuge  when  the  plague  was  raging 
in  London,  stands  the  Quaker  meeting-house  of 
Jordans.  Living  or  dead,  no  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends  could  wish  to  find  himself  in 
a  spot  more  in  harmony  with  the  simple  tenets 
of  his  creed.  As  the  meeting-house  breaks 
upon  the  vision  through  the  stately  trees  by 
which  it  is  surrounded,  it  seems  as  if  one  had 
been  vouchsafed  a  glimpse  of  New  England  in 
Old  England ;  it  is  just  such  a  building  as  was 
common  in  the  New  World  what  time  the 
religious  refugees  of  Britain,  late  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  crossed  the  seas  in  search  of 
that  liberty  of  conscience  denied  them  in  the  old 
home.  On  such  rude  wooden  benches  as  still 

85 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

remain  under  that  red-tiled  roof,  no  rule  of  life 
and  faith  would  be  more  seemly  than  that 
preached  by  George  Fox ;  and  than  that  simple 
God's  acre  which  fronts  the  meeting-house  there 
could  be  no  fitter  resting-place  in  which  to  await 
in  quiet  confidence  that  Day  which  will  prove 
how  far  that  creed  was  in  harmony  with  absolute 
truth. 

For  several  miles  around,  this  district  is  rich 
in  memories  of  the  early  Quakers.  Near  by  was 
the  peaceful  home  of  the  Penningtons,  in  which 
Thomas  Ellwood  was  living  as  tutor,  and  from 
which  William  Penn  was  to  take  his  first  and 
most  beloved  wife.  General  Fleetwood,  too,  had 
his  residence  in  the  neighbourhood.  The  reason 
for  this  focussing  cf  so  many  Friends  within  a 
small  area  was  probably  the  same  as  that  which 
drove  the  Covenanters  of  Scotland  to  seek 
refuge  on  the  lonely  moors ;  to-day  Jordans  is 
sufficiently  inaccessible,  and  two  centuries  ago 
it  must  have  been  an  ideal  haven  for  suspected 
sectaries. 

More  than  two  hundred  years  have  elapsed 
since  Jordans  passed  into  the  possession  of  the 
Society  of  Friends.  It  owes  its  name  probably 
to  a  forgotten  owner  of  the  property ;  for  it  was 
not  from  a  Jordan,  but  from  one  William  Rus- 

86 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

sell,  that,  in  1671,  Thomas  Ellwood  and  several 
others  acquired  the  land  in  behalf  of  the  Society. 
The  idea  of  a  meeting-house  seems  to  have  been 
an  after-thought ;  it  was  as  a  burial-place  simply 
that  Jordans  was  originally  purchased.  But  the 


CHURCH  OF  ALL  HALLOWS  BARKING,  LONDON,  WHERE  WILLIAM 
PENN  WAS  BAPTISED 

meeting-house  was  not  long  in  following,  for 
seventeen  years  later  there  is  authentic  record 
of  its  existence.  Probably  some  generations 
have  passed  since  regular  meetings  were  held 
in  this  rude  temple ;  but  twice  every  year  — 
on  the  fourth  Sunday  in  May  and  the  first 
Thursday  in  June  —  set  gatherings  are  held  to 

87 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

keep   alive  the   continuity  of  Quaker  teaching 
within  these  walls. 

But  it  is  because  of  its  graves,  and  not  on  ac- 
count of  its  meeting-house,  that  Jordans  attracts 
so  many  pilgrims  year  by  year.  For  a  century 
and  a  half  there  was  nothing  to  distinguish  one 
mouldering  heap  from  another.  Here,  for  ex- 
ample, is  the  account  which  Mr.  William  Hep- 
worth  Dixon,  one  of  Penn's  most  competent 
biographers,  wrote  of  his  visit  to  the  place  in 
1851 :  "  Nothing  could  be  less  imposing  than  the 
graveyard  at  Jordans :  the  meeting-house  is  like 
an  old  barn  in  appearance,  and  the  field  in  which 
the  illustrious  dead  repose  is  not  even  decently 
smoothed.  There  are  no  gravel  walks,  no  monu- 
ments, no  mournful  yews,  no  cheerful  flowers ; 
there  is  not  even  a  stone  to  mark  a  spot  or  to 
record  a  name.  When  I  visited  it  with  my 
friend  Granville  Penn,  Esq.,  great-grandson  of 
the  State- Founder,  on  the  llth  of  January  this 
year,  we  had  some  difficulty  in  determining  the 
heap  under  which  the  great  man's  ashes  lie.  Mis- 
takes have  occurred  before  now ;  and  for  many 
years  pilgrims  were  shown  the  wTong  grave  ! " 

With  the  laudable  desire  of  helping  pilgrims 
to  pay  their  devotions  at  the  right  shrine,  Mr. 

88 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Dixon  prepared  a  simple  ground-plan  of  the 
graveyard,  and  the  positions  of  the  small  head- 
stones which  mark  the  graves  to-day  correspond 
with  that  plan  to  a  large  extent.  But  there  is 
one  important  exception.  It  will  be  seen  from 


JORDANS  MEETING-HOUSE 

one  of  the  pictures  that  the  stone  nearest  to 
the  fence  in  the  second  row  bears  the  name  of 
"  John  Penn,"  whereas  in  Mr.  Dixon's  plan  that 
position  marks  the  grave  of  "John  Pennington." 
It  is  not  easy  to  throw  any.  light  on  this  mistake. 
For  instance,  it  is  difficult  to  see  what  John 
Penn  could  be  buried  under  the  date  given, 

89 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

1746 ;  certainly  not  the  grandson  who  occupied 
Stoke  Park  and  was  responsible,  in  1799,  for 
that  ponderous  cenotaph  to  the  memory  of  Gray. 
The  grave  is  undoubtedly  more  likely  to  be  that 
of  a  Pennington,  a  member  of  the  family  to 
which  William  Penn's  first  wife  belonged.  The 
mystery  about  this  particular  grave  makes  all 
the  more  unmeaning  the  attempt  to  desecrate 
it,  which  occurred  some  time  back. 

It  lends  a  pathetic  interest  to  this  lonely 
graveyard  to  visit  it  fresh  from  a  perusal  of 
Thomas  Ellwood's  simple  autobiography.  All 
those  who  sleep  so  quietly  under  these  modest 
headstones  figure  more  or  less  in  his  pages ; 
they  become  known  to  us  in  all  their  quaint 
Quaker  habits  and  beliefs,  and  appeal  to  us 
with  the  tender  sentiment  of  a  bygone  age. 
Penn  had  two  wives  and  eleven  children,  of 
whom  both  wives  and  seven  of  the  children 
keep  him  company  here. 

Next  to  Penn  himself,  the  memory  which 
most  dominates  this  burial-place  is  that  of  Guli 
Penn,  his  first  wife.  Ellwood  knew  her  in  Lon- 
don as  a  child  ;  became  her  playfellow ;  used 
to  "ride  with  her  in  her  little  coach,  drawn 
by  her  footman  about  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields." 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Springett, 

90 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

who  fell  in  Cromwell's  army,  and  her  mother 
afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Isaac  Penning- 
ton.  Other  children  were  born  to  Isaac  Penn- 
ington  and  Lady  Springett,  and  as  tutor  to 
those  children  Ellwood  was  for  many  years  in 


INTERIOR  OF  JORDANS  MEETING-HOUSE 

daily  converse  with  Guli  Springett.  He  had 
an  ample  opportunity,  then,  to  win  her  for  his 
own ;  and  he  was  not  "  so  stupid  nor  so  di- 
vested of  all  humanity  as  not  to  be  sensible  of 
the  real  and  innate  worth  and  virtue  which 
adorned  that  excellent  dame."  Outsiders  talked, 
of  course.  Ellwood  had  not  joined  the  Quakers 

91 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

for  nothing ;  his  motive  was  the  conquest  of 
Guli  and  the  annexation  of  her  fortune ;  if  he 
could  not  get  her  by  fair  means,  why  then,  of 
course,  lie  would  run  away  with  her  and  marry 
her.  Such  pleasant  gossip  reached  the  ears 
of  the  Penningtons  and  their  tutor ;  but  the 
former  did  not  lose  confidence  and  the  latter 
did  not  pluck  up  courage  to  make  the  gossip 
true.  For  Guli  Springett  was  worth  winning. 
"In  all  respects,"  says  the  meek  Ell  wood,  "  a  very 
desirable  woman  —  whether  regard  was  had  to 
her  outward  person,  which  wanted  nothing  to 
render  her  completely  comely ;  or  to  the  en- 
dowments of  her  mind,  which  were  every  way 
extraordinary  and  highly  obliging ;  or  to  her 
outward  fortune,  which  was  fair."  Ellwood's 
subsequent  wooing  showed  that  he  did  not  de- 
serve such  a  prize.  Guli  did  not  lack  for  suit- 
ors ;  but  towards  them  all,  "  till  he  at  length 
came  for  whom  she  was  reserved,  she  carried 
herself  with  so  much  evenness  of  temper, 
such  courteous  freedom  guarded  with  the 
strictest  modesty,  that,  as  it  gave  encourage- 
ment or  ground  of  hopes  to  none,  so  neither  did 
it  administer  any  matter  of  offence  or  just  cause 
of  complaint  to  any."  The  "  he  "  for  whom  she 
was  "  reserved  "  was  William  Penn.  Happening 

92 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

to  visit  Ellwood  at  the  Penningtons,  he  saw, 
was  enslaved,  and  then  conquered.  Twenty-two 
years  of  wedded  happiness  were  meted  out  to 
these  two,  and  then  Guli  Penn  was  laid  to  rest 
at  Jordans. 

Perhaps  it  spoils  something  of  the  romance 
that  Penn  took  a  second  wife,  even  though  it 
is  always  affirmed  that  Guli  ever  remained  his 
favourite  spouse.  Was  Hannah  Callowhill  con- 
scious of  that  fact  ?  Those  lovers  of  Guli  Penn 
who  are  knights-errant  of  her  memory  will  per- 
haps wickedly  hope  that  she  was.  This  sec- 
ond wife,  at  any  rate,  has  left  little  impress  in 
the  life  of  her  husband ;  that  she  bore  him  six 
children  and  that  from  one  of  her  sons  the  pres- 
ent representatives  of  the  male  branch  of  the 
family  are  descended  is  about  all  that  has  to 
be  recorded.  If  the  testimony  of  the  headstone 
must  be  accepted,  —  and  there  are  doubts  on  that 
point,  —  then  Hannah  Penn  lies  in  the  same 
grave  with  her  husband,  while  the  lovable  Guli 
sleeps  apart  by  herself  in  the  grave  to  the  left. 
Next  to  her  is  her  mother,  inscribed  on  the  head- 
stone simply  as  "  Mary  Pennington  "  and  not  as 
Lady  Springett.  She  appears  to  have  put  off 
her  title  with  her  widow's  weeds ;  and  in  any 
case  such  "  worldly  "  honours  can  hardly  expect 

93 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

perpetuation  in  a  Quaker  graveyard.  And  yet 
a  letter  among  the  manuscripts  of  the  Duke 
of  Portland  proves  that  Penn  himself  was 
not  wholly  indifferent  to  the  fascination  of 
sounding  titles.  He  is  writing  to  Robert  Harley 
on  matters  connected  with  Pennsylvania,  and  he 
weakly  confesses  that  he  asked  for  "  some  honor- 
ary mark,  as  a  founder  of  the  colony,  viz.,  as  the 
first  —  hereditary  —  Privy  Councillor  or  Chief 
Justice,  or  the  like,  which  I  shall  not  insist  upon, 
contenting  myself  with  the  rights  of  landlord  and 
lord  of  the  manor  of  the  country." 

Isaac  Pennington  finds  sepulture  here  too,  and 
Penn's  married  daughter  Letitia,  and  his  first- 
born son  Springett,  and  five  of  his  infant  children, 
and  Ellwood,  and  that  wife  of  his  whom  he 
wooed  in  such  a  comically  serious  fashion.  It  is 
quite  a  reunion  of  the  pugnacious  men  and  the 
demure  women  who  stand  in  such  marked  con- 
trast with  each  other  in  the  memory  of  those 
familiar  with  Ellwood's  pages.  Peace  to  their 
memory,  these  controversial  men,  these  mild- 
mannered  women !  Perhaps  they  would  not 
sleep  so  peacefully  could  they  be  conscious  of 
the  changes  which  have  come  over  those  who 
hold  their  creed  to-day.  Not  to  hear  the  "  thee  " 
and  "  thou,"  not  to  see  the  hat-covered  head,  - 

94 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

what  pain  this  would  be,  especially  to  the  ob- 
stinate Ell  wood,  whose  father  once  threatened  to 
knock  the  teeth  down  his  throat  if  he  "  thee-ed  " 
him  again,  and  buffeted  him  about  the  head  for 
persisting  in  wearing  a  hat  in  his  presence !  Poor 
Ellwood !  Hat  after  hat  was  filched  from  him 


GRAVES  OF  PENN  AND  HIS  WIVES  AT  JORDANS 


by  that  irate  father ;  and  when  at  last  even  his 
montero-cap  was  confiscated,  and  he  was  forced 
to  go  bareheaded,  he  caught  such  a  cold  in  his 
face  that  his  devoted  sister  had  much  ado  to 
keep  him  poulticed  with  "  figs  and  stoned  raisins 
roasted."  No  doubt  there  are  many  cheaper 
martyrdoms  than  that. 

95 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Philadelphia  often  casts  envious  eyes  towards 
the  graveyard  at  Jordans.  Is  that  Mr.  Hep  worth 
Dixon's  fault  ?  In  that  account  of  his  visit  to 
Jordans,  quoted  above,  he  mentions  Mr.  Granville 
Penn's  resolve  to  erect  some  simple  but  durable 
record  over  the  graves,  and  then  adds :  "  If  this 
be  not  done,  the  neglect  will  only  hasten  the  day 
on  which  his  ancestor's  remains  will  be  carried  off 
to  America — their  proper  and  inevitable  home  !" 
Dr.  Dixon  forgot  that  there  must  be  two  parties 
to  such  a  bargain.  Philadelphia  did  try  to  re- 
move the  remains  some  years  ago;  but  the  trus- 
tees of  the  burial-ground  objected,  and  the  Home 
Secretary  at  once  upheld  the  objection.  And 
now  a  Philadelphian  makes  another  suggestion. 
He  wants  a  memorial  to  Penn  erected  near  the 
Old  Bailey  in  London  —  the  scene  of  his  vindica- 
tion of  the  right  of  a  jury  to  render  a  verdict 
contrary  to  the  dictation  of  a  judge — and  the 
ashes  of  the  famous  Quaker  placed  underneath. 
The  suggestion  calls  up  two  pictures.  One  is  of 
a  grimy  street  in  the  heart  of  London,  where  the 
roar  of  traffic  resounds  from  dawning  day  to  past 
midnight,  where  stands  the  sombre  building  whose 
walls  are  fetid  with  the  stains  of  inhuman  crimes  ; 
the  other  is  of  a  grassy  dell  sentinelled  with  bosky 
trees,  where  a  soft  quietness  broods  through  win- 

96 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

ter  snows  and  summer  sun,  where  there  is  little 
to  suggest  the  depth  of  infamy  to  which  the 
human  heart  can  sink.  What  honour  would  it  be 
to  Penn  to  transplant  his  bones  from  Jordans  to 
the  Old  Bailey  ?  Then  there  is  Guli  Penn,  too, 
-  shall  that  gentle  spirit  be  ruthlessly  bereaved  ? 
Let  them  all  sleep  quietly  on,  these  Quaker 
friends  and  lovers,  till  He  shall  waken  them 
whose  they  are  and  whom  they  served. 


97 


IV 


THE   BIRTHPLACE  OF  GRAY'S   ELEGY 


IV 

THE   BIRTHPLACE   OF    GRAY'S   ELEGY 

"  No,  bard  divine  !     For  many  a  care  beguil'd 

By  the  sweet  magic  of  thy  soothing  lay, 

For  many  a  rapturd  thought,  and  vision  ivild, 

To  thee  this  strain  of  gratitude  I  pay." 

THOMAS  WARTON. 

GRAY'S  "  Elegy  "  is  the  Elegy  of  the  English- 
speaking  race.  All  its  most  outstanding  qualities 
are  native  to  the  sea-girt  isle  in  which  that  race 
had  its  origin.  Many  words  and  phrases  in  the 
poem  only  convey  the  full  power  of  their  emotion 
to  the  mind  which  can  interpret  them  in  the  light 
and  knowledge  of  English  history  and  English 
rural  life.  The  word  "  curfew  "  strikes  a  note 
mellow  with  memories  of  ages  long  gone  by,  and 
attunes  the  spirit  to  that  pleasant  melancholy 
which  is  the  most  profitable  mood  in  which  to 
read  the  poem.  That  "  glimmering  landscape  " 
too,  that  "  weary  ploughman,"  that  "  drowsy  tin- 
kling "  of  the  unseen  sheep,  that  "  moping  owl " 
complaining  from  the  church's  ivy-mantled  tower, 
—  ah1  these  things  are  English  to  the  core.  It  is 

101 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

not  difficult  to  understand  why  this  "Elegy" 
holds  its  place  of  supreme  honour  among  the 
people  to  whom  it  belongs.  "  It  is  a  poem," 
writes  Mr.  Swinburne,  "  of  such  high  perfection 
and  such  universal  appeal  to  the  tenderest  and 
noblest  depths  of  human  feeling  ; "  and  the  same 
writer  asserts  that  ''as  an  elegiac  poet,  Gray 
holds  for  all  ages  to  come  his  unassailable  and 
sovereign  station." 

When  the  eye  of  sense  falls  for  the  first  time 
upon  a  scene  hitherto  beheld  only  by  the  eye  of 
imagination,  there  often  comes  a  painful  feeling 
of  disenchantment,  an  enevitable  dispelling  of 
much  of  the  romance  which  gathered  round  the 
spot  while  it  was  still  unseen.  For  the  great 
majority,  the  churchyard  in  which  Gray  wrote  his 
"  Elegy  "  has  its  abode  in  the  realm  of  fancy  — 
how  does  it  suffer  by  the  critical  test  of  coming 
within  range  of  the  seeing  eye  ?  Frankly,  let  it 
be  confessed  that  it  suffers  surprisingly  little.  It 
is  true  that  the  painful  uniformity  and  glaring 
whiteness  of  the  modern  marble  memorial  stones 
which  are  becoming  too  plentiful  jar  upon  the 
old-time  sentiment  with  which  the  pilgrim  ap- 
proaches this  shrine,  but  these  unlovely  emblems 
of  departed  worth  and  surviving  grief  are  happily 
removed  a  little  distance  from  the  church,  and  thus 

102 


STOKE  POGES  CHURCH 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


it  happens  that  the  older  tombs  preserve  around 
the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  building  a  scene 
which  harmonises  with  the  verse  of  Gray  because 
it  can  have  changed  but  little  since  his  time.  It 
is  just  such  a  scene  as  most  imaginations  would 
have  pictured.  Each  object  is  easily  recognised 
by  the  poet's  description,  and  yet  no  one  object 
is  so  sharp  in  out- 
line as  to  remove  it 
altogether  from  the 
sphere  of  imagina- 
tion. The  only 
probable  exception 
is  the  "ivy-mantled 
tower."  The  tower 
itself  is  in  perfect 
harmony  with  the 

"Elegy,"  and  its  thickly  clustered  ivy  still  provides 
a  secret  bower  for  the  descendants  of  the  poet's 
"moping  owl;"  but  the  wooden  spire  which  rises 
from  its  battlements  seems  to  strike  a  note  of  dis- 
cord. For  the  rest,  all  is  as  it  should  be.  Each 
picture  in  the  poem  has  its  faithful  counterpart; 
the  eyewitnesses  to  the  fidelity  with  which  the 
poet  has  caught  the  inner  likeness  of  the  mute  ob- 
jects which  sat  for  the  models  of  his  immortal  can- 
vas. To  the  south  a  line  of  "rugged  elms"  stands 

105 


STOKE  POGES  CHURCHYARD 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

guard  by  the  churchyard  wall,  and  in  the  sum- 
mer sun  their  shadows  mingle  with  the  yew-tree's 
shade,  beneath  which, 

"  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep." 

If  the  fates  were  unkind  to  Gray  in  the  father 
they  gave  him,  the  balance  was  generously  read- 
justed in  the  person  of  his  mother.  Philip  Gray, 
the  father  of  the  poet,  is  not  to  be  credited  with 
any  share  in  his  famous  son's  achievements  ;  all 
that  we  have  to  thank  him  for  is  a  portrait  of 
that  son  in  his  thirteenth  year.  He  was  a  man 
of  violent  temper,  extravagant  in  his  habits,  wholly 
wanting  in  his  duty  to  his  family,  and  so  inhuman 
in  his  behaviour  to  his  wife  that  that  lady  was 
actually  dependent  during  the  whole  of  her  mar- 
ried life  upon  the  labour  of  her  own  hands.  The 
darkness  of  the  father's  character  serves  as  an 
excellent  foil  to  throw  that  of  the  mother  into 
relief.  In  a  double  sense  Gray  owed  his  life  to 
her,  for  when  he  was  still  an  infant  she,  finding 
the  child  in  a  fit,  resorted  to  the  desperate  remedy 
of  opening  one  of  his  veins  with  a  pair  of  scissors, 
and  so  saved  him  from  the  early  grave  which  her 
other  eleven  children  found.  Through  all  the  fol- 
lowing years  she  watched  with  tender  solicitude 
the  life  of  the  one  child  who  was  the  sole  harvest 

106 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

of  her  travail,  and  when  he  was  sent  to  Eton  it 
was  at  her  expense  and  not  that  of  his  father. 

To  his  mother,  too,  Gray  owed  his  acquaint- 
ance with  that  lovely  English  county  from  which 
he  was  to  gather  the  sweet  pastoral  images  of 
his  most  famous  poem.  Although  when  Miss 
Dorothy  Antrobus  became  the  wife  of  Philip 
Gray  she  was  keeping  a  milliner's  shop  in  Corn- 
hill,  London,  in  partnership  with  her  sister  Mary, 
she  still  retained  an  affectionate  connection  with 
Buckinghamshire,  the  county  of  her  birth,  one  of 
her  sisters  being  married  to  a  prosperous  lawyer 
who  lived  at  Burnham.  In  the  house  of  this 
uncle  Gray  spent  his  vacations  from  Eton,  and 
thus  began  his  acquaintance  with  the  neighbour- 
ing parish  of  Stoke  Poges  and  with  that  church- 
yard which  was  to  have  such  a  profound  influence 
on  his  verse.  Here  also  he  discovered  that  forest  of 
Arden  which,  by  the  name  of  Burnham  Beeches, 
is  now  famous  among  all  English-speaking 
people.  "  I  have,"  he  wrote  in  a  vacation  letter 
to  Horace  Walpole,  "  at  the  distance  of  half  a 
mile,  through  a  green  lane,  a  forest  (the  vulgar 
call  it  a  common)  all  my  own,  at  least,  as  good 
as,  for  I  spy  no  human  thing  in  it  but  myself. 
It  is  a  little  chaos  of  mountains  and  precipices, 
—  mountains,  it  is  true,  that  do  not  ascend 

107 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

much  above  the  clouds,  nor  are  the  declivities 
quite  so  amazing  as  Dover  Cliff,  but  just  such 
hills  as  people  who  love  their  necks  as  much  as 
I  do  may  venture  to  climb,  and  crags  that  give 
the  eye  as  much  pleasure  as  if  they  were  most 
dangerous.  Both  vale  and  hill  are  covered  with 
venerable  beeches,  and  other  very  reverend  vege- 
tables, that,  like  most  other  ancient  people,  are 
always  dreaming  out  their  old  stories  to  the 
winds.  At  the  foot  of  one  of  these  squats  Me 
(il  pcnscroso]  and  there  I  grow  to  the  trunk  for 
a  whole  morning." 

Death  was  the  chief  cause  of  Gray  becoming 
more  intimately  acquainted  with  Stoke  Poges 
than  had  been  possible  during  his  Eton  vaca- 
tions. AVhen  Philip  Gray  died  in  1741,  Dorothy 
Gray  and  her  sister  Mary  doubtless  realised  that 
one  of  the  strongest  ties  which  held  them  to  the 
metropolis  had  snapped,  and  when,  about  a  year 
later,  their  sister  in  Buckinghamshire  became  a 
widow,  the  three  ladies  apparently  resolved  to 
end  their  days  together  in  the  county  of  their 
birth.  Henceforward,  —  that  is,  from  October, 
1742,  —  Gray  had  no  home  in  London,  but  there 
was  always  open  to  him  the  peaceful  haven 
which  his  mother  and  her  two  sisters  had  shaped 
for  themselves  at  Stoke  Poges.  The  house  was 

108 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

situated  at  West  End,  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  parish,  where  the  present  mansion  of  Stoke 
Court  now  stands.  It  is  described  as  having 


STOKE  COURT 

been  a  simple  farmhouse  of  two  stories,  with  a 
rustic  porch  before  the  door,  but  the  only  apart- 
ments which  survive  from  the  old  building  are 
the  poet's  bedroom,  the  study,  and  the  window 
above  at  which  he  used  to  sit.  There  yet  exists 

109 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


at  Stoke  Court,  however,  a  still  more  interesting 
.^^^^^^^^^^^^^_  relic   of  the   poet,   in 

the  summer-house  in 
which  he  "  used  to  sit 
and  muse."  It  is  a 

substantial  stone-built 

•Or''"*''*  I I 

structure,  embowered 

jjjfc*1'  in    trees,    and    com- 

^^H^H^r^  -Mb  L.      '  •  *  nlHl 

GRAY'S  BEDROOM  manding  from  the  ris- 

ing ground  on  which 

it  stands  a  far-reaching  view  of  the  surrounding 
country.  Than  this  peaceful  retreat  it  would  be 
difficult  to  imagine  a  spot  more  in  harmony  with 
the  pensive  muse 
of  Gray.  As  in 
the  case  of  Words- 
worth, it  may  well 
have  been  that 
while  the  poet's 
books  were  to  be  I 
found  indoors,  this 
summer-house  was  GHAY,g  STI:DV 

his   study.      Here, 

doubtless,  the  poet  penned  many  of  those  lines 
which  were  to  attain  an  unfailing  immortal- 
ity. The  outlook  is  still  as  calm  and  remote 
from  the  busy  stir  as  when  Gray  described  him- 

110 


GRAY'S  SUMMER-HOUSE 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

self  as   "still   at  Stoke,  hearing,  seeing,   doing 
absolutely  nothing." 

As  death  was  instrumental  in  deepening  Gray's 
intimacy  with  Stoke  Poges,  so  also  was  the  king 
of  terrors  responsible  for  creating  in  him  that 
spirit  of  melancholy  out  of  which  the  "  Elegy " 
grew.  One  of  the  poet's  dearest  friends  at 
Eton  had  been  Richard  West,  who  was  denied 
any  considerable  span  of  life  in  which  to  ripen  his 
undoubted  genius.  While  on  a  visit  to  Stoke, 
Gray  heard  suddenly  of  the  death  of  this  early 
friend,  and  the  loss  tinged  all  his  after  life  with 
sadness.  The  immediate  issue  of  that  loss  may 
be  traced  in  the  poems  written  while  his  sorrow 
was  still  heavy  upon  him.  One  of  these  is  the 
sonnet  specially  dedicated  to  West's  memory. 

"  In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 

And  reddening  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire  ; 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join  ; 

Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire  ; 
These  ears,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine, 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  ; 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine  ; 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men  ; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear  ; 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain  ; 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 
'    And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain." 
8  113 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Then  there  is  the  "  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect 
of  Eton  College,"  the  whole  of  which  is  suffused 
with  that  retrospective  tenderness  which  is  the 
dominant  mood  of  the  human  mind  under  the 
influence  of  death.  On  the  southern  horizon 
seen  from  Stoke  Poges  the  embattled  outline  of 
the  Royal  Castle  of  Windsor  and  the  "  antique 
towers  "  of  Eton  are  plainly  visible,  and  as  Gray 
gazed  upon  these  familiar  objects  while  still  in 
the  throes  of  his  lonely  anguish,  what  was  more 
natural  than  that  his  mind  should  revert  to  those 
lost  days  of  his  boyhood  which  he  had  spent 
there  in  the  company  of  West  ? 

"  Ah  happy  hills  !  ah  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray 'd, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe. 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breath  a  second  spring." 

Verses  such  as  these  are  sufficient  evidence  of 
the  sombre  mood  of  Gray's  spirit  during  that  sad 
autumn  of  1742 ;  his  muse  was  surely  ripening 
towards  the  full  harvest  of  the  "  Elegy."  One 
other  event  helping  towards  that  fruition  was  to 

114 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

happen  that  autumn,  and  this  was  the  death  of 
that  lawyer  uncle  in  whose  home  the  poet  had 
spent  so  many  of  his  holidays  from  Eton.  Twice, 
thus,  within  a  few  short  months  the  shadow  of 
death  fell  upon  Gray's  life,  and  in  the  gloom  of 
those  days  "  melancholy  marked  him  for  her 
own,"  and  awakened  the  beginnings  of  that 
"  Elegy  "  which  was  to  give  the  English  mind 
its  most  comforting  channel  of  expression  in  any 
twilight  hour. 

Although  begun  as  the  year  1742  waned  to  its 
close,  the  "  Elegy  "  was  not  to  be  finished  for  a 
long  time.  It  may  be  that  Gray  in  the  new  life 
at  Cambridge  upon  which  he  now  entered  found 
some  relief  from  the  mood  in  which  the  poem 
had  its  birth  ;  in  any  case,  it  was  not  until  death 
was  to  touch  him  again  nearly,  in  the  person  of 
one  whom  he  loved,  that  the  "  Elegy  "  was  fash- 
ioned to  its  completion.  In  November,  1749, 
news  reached  Gray  at  Cambridge  that  his  aunt 
Mary  —  she  who  had  been  partner  in  the  milli- 
ner's shop  at  Cornhill  —  had  died  suddenly,  and 
he  at  once  addressed  to  his  mother  the  following 
tender-spirited  letter :  "  The  unhappy  news  I 
have  just  received  from  you  equally  surprises  and 
afflicts  me.  I  have  lost  a  person  I  loved  very 
much,  and  have  been  used  to  from  my  infancy, 

115 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

but  am  much  more  concerned  for  your  loss,  the 
circumstances  of  which  I  forbear  to  dwell  upon, 
as  you  must  be  too  sensible  of  them  yourself; 
.and  will,  I  fear,  more  and  more  need  a  consola- 
tion that  no  one  can  give,  except  He  who  had 
preserved  her  to  you  so  many  years,  and  at  last, 
when  it  was  His  pleasure,  has  taken  her  from  us 
to  Himself ;  and  perhaps,  if  we  reflect  upon  what 
she  felt  in  this  life,  we  may  look  upon  this  as  an 
instance  of  His  goodness  both  to  her  and  to  those 
who  loved  her.  .  .  .  However  you  may  deplore 
your  own  loss,  yet  think  that  she  is  at  last  easy 
.and  happy;  and  has  now  more  occasion  to  pity 
us  than  we  her.  I  hope,  and  beg,  you  will  sup- 
port yourself  with  that  resignation  we  owe  to 
Him,  who  gave  us  our  being  for  our  good,  and 
who  deprives  us  of  it  for  the  same  reason.  I 
would  have  come  to  you  directly,  but  you  do  not 
say  whether  you  desire  I  should  or  not ;  if  you 
do,  I  beg  I  may  know  it,  for  there  is  nothing  to 
hinder  me,  and  I  am  in  very  good  health." 

It  does  not  seem  clear  whether  Gray  did  go  to 
Stoke  Poges  at  this  time,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  death  of  his  aunt  revived  the  mood  in 
which  the  "  Elegy  "  was  begun,  and  led  to  its 
completion.  He  finished  the  poem  at  Stoke  in 
June  of  the  following  year,  and  in  sending  a 

116 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

copy  to  Horace  Walpole  he  wrote,  "  Having 
put  an  end  to  a  thing  whose  beginning  you  have 
seen  so  long,  I  immediately  send  it  to  you.  You 
will,  I  hope,  look  upon  it  in  the  light  of  a  thing 
with  an  end  to  it ;  a  merit  that  most  of  my  writ- 
ings have  wanted  and  are  likely  to  want." 


•  THE  YEW-TREE'S  SHADE  " 


It  is  puerile,  in  the  face  of  the  overwhelming 
evidence  available,  to  assert,  as  some  have  done, 
that  the  churchyard  of  the  "Elegy"  is  not  that 
of  Stoke  Poges.  Even  apart  from  that  evidence, 
the  testimony  of  the  poem  is  conclusive  on  that 
point :  he  who  visits  Stoke  Poges  with  the 

117 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  Elegy  "  written  clearly  on  the  tablets  of  his 
memory  realises  at  once  that  here  is  the  very 
scene  from  which  its  pictures  were  drawn;  he 
will  feel,  as  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  has  said,  "  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  confidence  in  the  poet's  sincerity." 
The  harmony  between  the  objective  sights  and 


GRAY'S  TOMB 

the  subjective  recollections  is  perfect.  The 
"  ivy-mantled  tower,"  the  "  rugged  elms,"  the 
"yew-tree's  shade,"  the  frail  memorials  "with 
uncouth  rhimes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked," 
the  "church-way  path"  —  these  all  assert  the 
truthfulness  of  the  poet's  picture,  and  prove  that 

118 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

it  was  here  and  nowhere   else  he   garnered  the 
images  of  his  immortal  verse. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  Gray  himself  was  laid  to 
rest  in  the  peaceful  graveyard  of  Stoke  Poges, 
and  thus  the  visitor  thither  has  the  added  sad 
pleasure  of  pausing  by  the  tomb  of  the  poet 
whose  verse  was  the  motive  of  his  pilgrimage. 
First  to  be  laid  in  this  grave  was  that  aunt  whose 
death  he  so  deeply  deplored,  and  then,  four  years 
later,  there  followed  that  tender  mother  to  whom 
he  owed  so  great  a  debt  of  affection.  The  in- 
scription on  the  tomb,  written  by  Gray,  reads 
thus  :  "  In  the  vault  beneath  are  deposited,  in  the 
hope  of  a  joyful  resurrection,  the  remains  of  Mary 
Antrobus.  She  died  unmarried,  Nov.  5,  1749, 
aged  66.  In  the  same  pious  confidence,  beside 
her  friend  and  sister,  here  sleep  the  remains  of 
Dorothy  Gray,  widow,  the  careful  tender  mother 
of  many  children,  one  of  whom  alone  had  the 
misfortune  to  survive  her.  She  died  March  11, 
1753,  aged  67."  Gray  himself  died  in  July, 
1771,  and  in  his  will  he  left  explicit  instructions 
that  his  body  was  to  be  "  deposited  in  the  vault, 
made  by  my  late  dear  mother  in  the  churchyard 
of  Stoke  Poges,  near  Slough  in  Buckinghamshire, 
by  her  remains."  Of  course  this  wish  was  re- 
spected, but  there  is  no  inscription  on  the  tomb 

119 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

to  show  that  the  poet  is  buried  there.  In  the 
wall  of  the  church,  however,  close  by,  there  is  a 
stone  which  reads :  "  Opposite  to  this  stone,  in 
the  same  tomb  upon  which  he  has  so  feelingly 
recorded  his  grief  at  the  loss  of  a  beloved  parent, 


GRAY'S  MONUMENT 

are  deposited  the  remains  of  Thomas  Gray, 
the  author  of  the  Elegy  written  in  a  country 
churchyard.  He  was  buried  August  6th,  1771." 
There  is,  however,  a  monument  to  the  poet 
in  the  field  adjoining  the  churchyard  on  the  east. 
This  takes  the  form  of  a  massive  cenotaph,  and 
upon  the  four  sides  of  the  pedestal  there  are 
various  inscriptions.  Three  of  these  are  quota- 

120 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

tions  from  the  poet's  verses ;  the  fourth  records 
that  "  This  monument,  in  honour  of  Thomas 
Gray,  was  erected  A.  D.  1799,  among  the  scenes 
celebrated  by  that  great  Lyric  and  Elegiac  Poet. 
He  died  July  31,  1771,  and  lies  unnoted,  in  the 
churchyard  adjoining,  under  the  tombstone  in 
which  he  piously 
and  pathetically 
recorded  the  in- 
terment of  his 
aunt  and  lamented 
mother."  The  cost 
of  this  monument, 
and  the  stone  in 

.1  i  i  n  STOKE  POGES  MANOR  HOUSE 

the   church  wall, 

was  generously  borne  by  Mr.  John  Penn,  a 
grandson  of  the  founder  of  Pennsylvania.  At 
the  time  of  their  erection,  and  indeed  for  some 
thirty  years  before,  Stoke  Poges  Manor  was  in  the 
possession  of  the  Penn  family.  Since  that  date 
the  property  has  been  in  the  possession  of  several 
owners,  but,  happily,  they  have  all  realised  that 
in  many  respects  they  were  but  the  stewards  of 
a  heritage  in  which  all  lovers  of  the  poet  have  a 
rightful  share. 

One   other   association    of    Gray   with    Stoke 
Poges   has  still   to   be  mentioned.     Before   the 

121 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  Elegy  "  was  printed,  Horace  Walpole  appears 
to  have  handed  it  about  in  manuscript  form,  and 
one  copy  was  seen  by  Lady  Cobham,  who  was 
then  residing  at  Stoke  Poges  Manor  House.  By 
and  by  the  lady  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
author  was  living  in  the  same  parish,  and  she 
gladly  availed  herself  of  the  services  of  two  visit- 
ors to  secure  his  acquaintance.  These  visitors, 
who  were  ladies,  set  off  one  day  across  the  fields 
to  the  farmhouse  at  West  End,  and,  not  finding 
the  poet  at  home,  left  such  a  message  as  made  it 
compulsory  on  him  to  return  the  call.  Out  of 
this  incident,  and  descriptive  of  it,  grew  Gray's 
humorous  poem  entitled  "  A  Long  Story,"  the 
closing  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  the  Manor 
House. 

It  will  be  seen,  then,  how  rich  is  the  parish  of 
Stoke  Poges  in  associations  with  the  memory 
of  Gray.  From  early  boyhood  to  ripe  manhood 
these  peaceful  fields  and  lanes  often  filled  his 
vision  and  ministered  to  his  pensive  spirit  the 
tender  balm  of  nature's  sweetest  comfort.  Here, 
too,  he  experienced  that  love  of  kindred  which 
was  in  part  denied  him  in  his  own  home,  spend- 
ing those  "  quiet  autumn  days  of  every  year  so 
peacefully  in  loving  and  being  loved  by  those 
three  placid  old  ladies  at  Stoke,  in  a  warm  atmos- 

122 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

phere  of  musk  and  potpourri."  But  it  is  in  the 
quiet  churchyard  the  memory  of  the  poet  lives 
in  its  greatest  intensity.  So  long  as  the  pathos 
of  lowly  life  appeals  to  the  heart,  so  long  as  there 
is  a  soul  not  wholly  lost  to  the  charm  of  peaceful 
days  spent  in  the  "  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life," 
so  long  as  the  tender  images  of  fading  day  and 
unavailing  reminders  of  the  dead  have  power  to 
move  the  spirit  —  so  long  will  this  God's  Acre 
keep  green  the  memory  of  that  poet  whose  verse 
abounds  with  "  sentiments  to  which  every  bosom 
returns  an  echo." 


123 


V 
GILBERT    WHITE'S    SELBORNE 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  SELBORNE 

"  Open  the  book  where  you  will,  it  takes  you  out  of  doors.  In 
our  broiling  July  weather  one  can  walk  out  with  this  genially  gar- 
rulous Fellow  of  Oriel,  and  find  refreshment  instead  of  fatigue." 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

SUCH  a  village  as  Selborne  opens  wide  the  gates 
of  that  world  of  imagination  in  which  poets 
dwell.  True,  there  are  some  signs  that  the  march 
of  humanity  has  not  paused  these  two  hundred 
years,  but  they  are  so  few  and  so  tentative  that 
they  are  unable  to  strike  any  effective  discord. 
For  the  rest,  the  golden  stain  of  time  is  over  all. 
A  beech-clad  hill  rises  abruptly  some  three 
hundred  feet  on  the  south  side  of  the  village, 
and  a  narrow  cleft  in  the  trees  gives  a  peep  of 
the  little  rural  world  below.  It  is  a  picture  of 
red  and  brown  roofs  in  a  frame  of  green.  From 
the  grey  tower  of  the  church  comes  hour  by 
hour  the  monition  of  passing  time ;  and  in  the 
pauses  of  the  warning  bell  there  float  upwards 
now  and  then  such  sounds  of  Nature  life  as  were 
familiar  in  the  far-off  days  of  Chaucer.  Nature 

127 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

has  no  chronology,  no  revolutions.  Some  of  her 
children  have  fallen  in  the  battle  of  life,  and  left 
no  successors,  but  those  who  survive  show  few 
visible  traces  of  the  flight  of  time.  The  song  of 
the  nightingale  heard  among  these  trees  in  the 
twilight  to-day  is 

"  the  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn." 

In  the  one  long  straggling  street  of  the  village 
we  draw  nearer  the  present  age ;  but  not  much. 
Away  towards  the  east  a  few  monstrosities  of 
brick  and  slate  blot  the  old-time  landscape  with 
their  hideous  straight  lines  and  discordant  roofs. 
"  How  nice  it  would  be,"  exclaimed  an  admirer, 
"  if  we  had  a  long  row  of  houses  like  that !  " 
Ruskin's  life-work  has  borne  no  harvest  in  that 
stony  soil.  But  to  the  west,  there,  where  the 
road  bends  towards  the  old  church,  stand  cot- 
tages out  of  which  Anne  Hathaway  or  Master 
William  Shakespeare  might  step  at  any  moment. 
Lovingly  the  weather-stained  thatch  has  grown 
into  harmony  with  the  old  walls  over  which  it 
spreads  its  mantle,  and  the  roses  climb  up  from 
beneath  to  kiss  the  ancient  roof-tree  with  their 
blushing  petals.  "  But  thatch  is  so  unhealthy, 
you  know,"  suggests  a  Girtonian  hygienist. 

128 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Mollycoddles  that  we  moderns  are !  Even  if  it 
were  —  what  then  ?  Life  is  vastly  overrated  in 
these  days  ;  too  much  is  done  for  the  survival  of 
the  unfittest.  But  is  it  ?  Those  heroes  who  laid 
the  proud  Armada  low  were  bred  under  roofs  of 
thatch. 

What  walks  there  are  in  this  old-world  village ! 
There   are  footpaths   everywhere,  and   none   of 


THE  LYTHE 

them  lead  whither  Richard  Jeffries'  footpaths 
led  him  —  back  to  a  railway  station,  and  so  to 
London.  The  great  iron  road  is  so  far  away  that 
not  even  the  engine's  shriek  carries  to  this  quiet 
dell.  There  is  a  meandering  valley  called  "The 
Lythe,"  —  the  village  has  a  vocabulary  of  its 
own,  —  and  there  is  a  choice  of  two  paths  towards 

131 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  old  priory,  whither  it  leads.  The  one  on  the 
left  of  the  valley  dips  down  over  a  swelling  hill, 
passes  through  such  a  wicket-gate  as  Constable 
would  have  loved,  winds  leisurely  on  under  the 
shadow  of  the  stately  beeches,  crosses  a  meadow 
or  two  in  luscious  grass,  strikes  into  a  wild 
copse,  where  the  bracken  and  bramble  and  dog- 
rose  tangle  themselves  across  the  footway,  and 
emerges  in  a  field  where  a  prostrate  stone  coffin 
is  nearly  all  that  remains  of  the  priory  which 
reared  its  head  here  five  hundred  years  ago.  Yet 
not  quite  all.  In  the  corner  of  the  farmhouse 
garden  is  a  small  arbour,  bright  still  with  the 
tiles  which  sandalled  monkish  feet  pressed  in  the 
far-off  years.  What  a  gulf  yawns  between  our 
time  and  theirs  !  But  are  we  on  the  right  side 
of  it? 

By  the  letter  of  law,  Selborne  belongs  to  Lord 
Selborne,  and  other  landowners ;  by  the  gavel- 
kind  of  genius  it  belongs  to  Gilbert  White. 
Born  here,  nurtured  here,  pastor  here,  died  here, 
buried  here,  —  such  is  the  record  of  his  simple 
history.  The  village  is  permeated  with  his  pres- 
ence still ;  his  footprints  may  be  traced  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  parish. 

It  is  a  feasible  theory  that  Selborne  itself  is 
responsible  for  what  Gilbert  White  was  and  did. 

132 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Environment  is  a  persistent  moulder  of  character. 
"  Selborne,"  says  Frank  Buckland,  "  was  a  big 
bird-cage  in  which  White  himself  was  enclosed 
even  more  than  the  birds."  To-day  it  is  a  pil- 
grimage which  only  the  earnest  devotee  thinks 


THE   PLESTOR 

of  making ;  there  are  five  full  miles  between  it 
and  the  nearest  railway  station.  In  White's 
time  the  village  was  even  more  effectually  cut 
off  from  the  outer  world.  Then  the  only  ap- 
proach was  along  those  fearsome  "  hanging  lanes," 
which,  disused  for  many  a  year,  still  survive  in 
a  wild  jungle  condition  as  samples  of  the  roads 

133 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

our  forefathers  traversed.  Few  were  the  visitors 
coming  and  going  ;  the  inaccessibility  of  the  par- 
ish was  responsible  for  it  becoming  a  nest  of 
smugglers.  White  was  driven  to  seek  compan- 
ionship among  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

Little  change  has  come  over  Selborne  during 
the  hundred-odd  years  that  have  passed  since 
Gilbert  White's  death.  From  the  entrance  to 
the  village  on  the  Alton  Road  to  a  hundred 
yards  or  so  east  of  the  house  in  which  he  lived, 
the  change  would  hardly  be  perceptible  even  to 
his  keen  eye.  The  old  village-green  —  "  vulgarly 
called  the  Plestor,"  says  White  —  is  unaltered, 
save  that  the  sycamore-tree  in  the  centre  has  in- 
creased in  girth  with  advancing  years.  Gilbert 
White's  house,  too,  has  enlarged  its  borders  and 
taken  on  a  slightly  modern  air,  yet  it  is  not  so 
refashioned  that  its  former  owner  would  be  in 
danger  of  passing  it  even  on  the  darkest  night ; 
many  of  those  cottages  in  which  the  curate- 
naturalist  took  such  excusable  pride,  remain  to 
shame  the  twentieth-century  spirit  with  their 
picturesque  harmonies  of  half  timber  and  thatch  ; 
and  the  church  itself  is  practically  unchanged 
from  the  aspect  it  wore  on  that  July  day,  more 
than  a  century  ago,  when  the  beloved  pastor  of 
this  old-world  village  was  carried  through  its 

134 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

porch  to  his  resting-place  in  the  peaceful  church- 
yard. 

Gilbert  White's  house  and  Gilbert  White's 
church  are  naturally  the  chief  foci  of  interest. 
Most  pilgrims  will  turn  to  the  house  first,  as 
being  more  intimately  connected  with  the  per- 
sonal life  of  the  man  whose  memory  has  brought 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  HOUSE  FROM  THE  REAR 

them  hither.  It  stands  close  to  the  village  high- 
way, and  its  rare  picture  of  blended  red-brick 
and  green  foliage  might  have  moved  the  heart  of 
Dr.  Johnson  to  fall  in  love  with  rural  life.  But 
its  chief  beauties  are  hidden  from  the  eyes  of 
the  passer-by,  and  beheld  only  by  those  who  are 
favoured  with  permission  to  pass  through  the 

137 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

house  and  inspect  it  from  the  grounds  in  the 
rear.  These  grounds  are  kept  with  fine  taste 
and  skill,  and  in  much  the  same  contour  as  in 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  SUN-DIAL 


White's  time.  On  the  farthest  verge  of  the 
lawn  still  stands  the  naturalist's  sun-dial ;  over 
in  the  meadow  is  the  shivering  aspen  he  planted  ; 
and  here  on  the  right  is  a  wall  he  built,  with 


138 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"G.  W.,  1761,"  still  clearly  legible  on  a  small 
tablet  embedded  among  the  bricks.  Then  there 
is  his  "  favourite  walk,"  a  long,  narrow  pathway 
of  bricks,  leading  from  the  house  for  several 
hundred  feet  in  the  direction  of  the  wooded  hill 
known  as  "  The  Hanger."  For  several  years  the 
house  has  been  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Parkin, 
a  gentleman  who,  with  rare  self-denial,  is  ever 
willing  to  open  his  doors  to  the  reasonable  pil- 
grim. And  this  not  without  having  suffered 
experiences  which  would  have  justified  him  in 
keeping  them  tightly  shut.  While  the  house 
was  being  put  into  order  for  the  family's  incom- 
ing, a  parson  had  the  ill-grace  to  lead  a  party  of 
twenty-five  equally  boorish  companions  on  a 
wild  romp  through  the  private  rooms,  and  one 
day  a  cyclist  of  fine  intelligence  rang  the  bell  to 
ask,  "  Would  you  mind  my  riding  my  bicycle 
along  Gilbert  White's  path  ? "  "  Yes,  I  should," 
promptly  replied  Mr.  Parkin  ;  "  and  the  sooner 
you  ride  it  off  the  better  pleased  I  shall  be." 

One  of  the  principal  curiosities  of  the  village 
owes  its  existence  to  Gilbert  White.  Towards 
the  eastern  end  of  "  The  Hanger "  there  is  a 
wide  gap  in  the  dense  beechen  foliage  with 
which  the  hill  is  clothed,  and  here  a  pathway  has 
been  cut  up  to  the  summit  in  the  form  of  a 

139 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

continuous  row  of  letter  v's  laid  sideways,  thus 
<.     It    is    called    "The  Zigzag,"   and   White 


THE  ZIGZAG 

refers  to  its  cutting  in  his  third  letter  to  Mr. 
Thomas  Pennant.  The  path,  which  had  become 
dangerous,  was  remade  by  Mr.  Parkin,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  careful  measurement  showed 

140 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

it  to  be  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  equal  to 
three  times  the  distance  straight  up  the  hill. 
Further  east  still  along  the  village  street  may 
be  seen  a  very  utilitarian  memorial  to  White. 


WISHING  STONE  ON  THE  HANGER 

On  an  iron  door  built  into  a  wall  by  the  road- 
side there  may  be  read  this  inscription :  "  This 
water  supply  was  given  to  Selborne  by  volun- 
tary subscription  in  memory  of  Gilbert  White, 

141 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

1894."  From  inside  that  iron  door  comes  the 
ceaseless  thud  of  the  ram  by  which  the  water 
is  forced  up  into  the  reservoir  from  which  the 
village  is  supplied.  No  one  can  find  fault  with 


WELL-HEAD 

such  a  practical  memorial,  but  it  seems  a  pity 
the  Selborne  people  did  not  give  its  outward  and 
visible  form  a  more  picturesque  embodiment. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  church  let  a  pause  be 
made  at  the  vicarage,  where  the  Rev.  Arthur 

142 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


Kaye  will  produce  the  old  parish  register  in 
which  White  made  so  many  entries.  If  it  is 
opened  in  the  middle  of  the  year  1793,  it  will 
reveal  the  page  which  has  been  reproduced  by 
the  camera.  This  r, 

...  '    [  The  Year  ff)3.    ]  PJJJC //      - 

page  will  serve  as  |  -c^i^s: 
well  as  any  to  illus- 
trate the  clear,  hon- 
est penmanship  of 
the  naturalist,  and 
it  possesses  the  ad- 
ditional interest  of 
bearing  the  record 
of  his  own  death 
and  burial.  More- 
over, it  corrects  a 
blunder  common 
with  most  writ- 
ers about  White. 
By  the  majority 
he  is  described  as 
"Vicar"  of  Sel- 
borne,  but  his  own  off-repeated  signature  shows 
that  he  was  never  more  than  curate. 

Selborne  Church  is  seen  to  the  most  advan- 
tage from  a  steep  pasture  to  the  east  of  the 
building,  called  "The  Lythe."  (The  parish, 

143 


SELBORNE  PARISH  REGISTER 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

as  has  been  said,  has  a  vocabulary  of  its  own, 
due,  in  W  hite's  opinion,  to  the  persistence  of  the 
Saxon  dialect  in  the  district.)  The  church  is 
beautifully  kept,  and  the  visitor  may  still  confide 
in  its  famous  curate's  description  of  it.  The 
squat  pillars,  the  "  deep  and  capacious  front,"  the 
Knights  Templars'  tombs,  are  all  as  they  were. 
But  high  up  in  the  corner  of  the  chancel  wall  is 
a  tablet  which  Gilbert  White  never  saw.  This 
tablet  has  misled  many  pilgrims,  for  its  first  sen- 
tence reads  thus :  "  In  the  fifth  grave  from  this 
wall  are  buried  the  remains  of  the  Revd  Gil- 
bert White,  M.A."  Naturally,  then,  search  is 
made  for  the  grave  inside  the  church.  It  is  so 
easy  to  overlook  the  inscription  at  the  top  of  the 
tablet  which  records  that  it  was  "  removed  into 
the  chancel  MDCCCX."  Hardly  would  the 
patient  historian  of  the  birds  and  flowers  and 
insects  of  Selborne  have  slept  peacefully  save 
in  that  open  air  which  is  their  home.  In  the 
graveyard,  then,  close  to  the  northeast  corner 
of  the  church,  must  the  simple  headstone  be 
sought  which  marks  where  lies  the  dust  of  Gil- 
bert White.  That  lichen-stained  stone  is  a 
grievance  to  some  people ;  they  write  to  the 
vicar,  and  urge  him  to  place  a  "  modern  memo- 
rial "  over  the  grave.  How  many  there  are  who 

144 


= 
o 

U 
x 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

have  no  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  !  Happily 
the  vicar  holds  the  sane  opinion  that  a  "  modern 
memorial "  would  be  wholly  out  of  keeping  with 
Gilbert  White's  character  and  work ;  that  this 


Iv  SELBORNE  CHURCH 

time-worn  stone  is  the  most  seemly  cenotaph  for 
a  man  who  lived  so  near  to  nature  as  he. 

There  is  no  official  visitors'  book  at  Selborne, 
the  only  substitute  being  a  somewhat  tattered 
volume  kept  in  the  Queen's  Arms  Hotel.  As 
the  church  doors  are  left  constantly  open,  and  as 
all  pilgrims  include  that  building  in  their  tour  of 
inspection,  would  it  not  be  a  good  idea  to  place 

147 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

such  a  book  on  a  desk  in  the  porch  ?  Many 
famous  names  are  inscribed  in  the  volume  kept 
at  the  hotel  —  those  of  Professor  Huxley,  Lord 
Napier  and  Ettrick,  and  John  Burroughs  being 


KNIGHTS  TEMPLARS'  TOMBS 


of  the  number.  Some  visitors  have  delivered 
themselves  of  opinions  as  to  what  should  be 
done  to  White's  resting-place,  Mr.  Frederic  Har- 
rison expressing  the  hope  that  on  his  next  visit 
to  Selborne  he  may  find  "  some  attention  has 
been  given  to  the  grave  and  headstone  of  Gilbert 
White."  Is  Mr.  Harrison  also  among  the  Phil- 
istines who  pine  for  a  "  modern  memorial "  ? 

148 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

If  ever  the  spirit  of  Philistinism  should  so 
assert  itself  as  to  ensure  the  triumphant  erection 
of  a  tasteless  modern  memorial  to  the  famous 
naturalist,  the  hope  may  be  expressed  that  this 
simple  "  headstone  grey "  may  still  remain  to 
mark  the  grave  of  White.  He,  we  may  be 
sure,  would  have  wished  for  no  more  ornate 
memorial. 


GILBERT  WHITE'S  GRAVE 


149 


VI 
GOLDSMITH'S    "DESERTED    VILLAGE" 


VI 

GOLDSMITH'S   "DESERTED  VILLAGE" 

"  Who,  of  the  millions  whom  he  has  amused,  does  not  love  him  ? 
To  be  the  most  loved  of  English  writers,  what  a  title  that  for  a 

WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


THERE  is  one  village  we  all  know  and  love. 
The  eye  of  sense  may  never  have  rested  on  its 
grassy  lanes,  the  ear  of  sense  may  never  have 
heard  the  subdued  murmur  of  its  quiet  sounds, 
but  its  beauties  and  its  harmonies  dwell  apart  in 
the  imagination  of  us  all.  Familiar,  too,  as  any 
friends  of  flesh  and  blood  are  the  actors  who  play 
their  part  on  this  rural  stage. 

Chief  among  them,  and  kindly  father  of  all, 
stands  the  village  preacher,  whose  heart's  gates 
were  flung  as  wide  open  as  the  doors  of  his 
modest  home.  We  know  him  in  his  home,  in 
the  village  street,  by  the  bedside  of  departing 
life,  and  in  the  church,  where 

"  Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway." 

By  the  glowing  light  of  his  fireside  we  discern 
now  the  form  of  an  aged  beggar,  anon  the  wreck 

153 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

of  a  gay  spendthrift  and  again  the  besoiled  uni- 
form of  a  broken  soldier.  As  these  waifs  of  hu- 
manity come  and  go,  as  they  one  by  one  fill  that 
hospitable  chair  and  are  warmed  and  fed,  the  one 
figure  which  is  permanent  in  the  picture  is  that 
of  the  godly  host,  and  his  face  is  ever  radiant 
with  tender  sympathy.  In  this  lowly  cottage, 
where  parting  life  is  laid,  it  is  the  same  venerable 
figure,  the  same  kindly  face,  that  bends  in  loving 
sorrow  over  the  humble  bed.  Along  the  village 
street,  too,  we  recognise  that  well-known  form, 
and  as  the  children  pluck  the  flowing  gown 
the  same  serene  countenance  bathes  them  in  its 
smiles.  Even  when  we  enter  the  village  church 
on  the  holy  day  of  rest,  we  find  the  same  benign 
figure  claiming  of  natural  right  the  high  position 
of  leader  among  the  simple  worshippers  within 
its  walls.  And  as  these  pictures  brighten  and 
fade  in  the  chamber  of  memory  we  repeat  softly 
to  ourselves : 

"  Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way." 
154 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Another  familiar  figure  in  this  dream-world 
of  ours  is  the  village  schoolmaster.  As  he  takes 
his  place  in  the  morning  at  his  rude  desk  we  see 
the  anxious  faces  of  his  pupils  upturned  in  an 
eager  scrutiny ;  well  skilled  are  they  by  rueful 
experience  in  determining  from  his  first  looks 
whether  the  day  is  to  be  one  of  calm  or  storm. 
If  he  cracks  a  joke,  the  laughter  is  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  wit ;  if  he  argues  in  words  of 
"  learned  length  and  thundering  sound "  the 
amazed  rustics  marvel  that  so  small  a  head 
should  hold  such  a  portentous  store  of  knowl- 
edge. From  the  village  school  the  memory 
passes  to  the  village  ale-house,  with  its 

"  White-washed  wall,  and  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door." 

Here  are  the  sage  statesmen  of  the  rural  world, 
who  solve  with  narrow-visioned  ignorance  prob- 
lems such  as  burden  their  more  responsible  pro- 
totypes with  anxious  days  and  sleepless  nights. 

But  where  is  this  village  to  be  found,  and  what 
is  its  name  ? 

To  attempt  to  answer  that  twofold  question  is 
to  tackle  a  knotty  point  of  literary  criticism. 

When  Thackeray  roamed  through  the  Green 
Isle  in  search  of  material  for  his  "  Irish  Sketch- 
Book,"  his  route  led  him  along  a  "  more  dismal 

155 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

and  uninteresting  road  "  than  he  had  ever  before 
seen.  That  road  brought  him  "  through  the  '  old, 
inconvenient,  ill-built  and  ugly  town  of  Athlone.' 
The  painter  would  find  here,  however,  some  good 
subjects  for  his  sketch-book  in  spite  of  the  com- 


ATHLONE 

mination  of  the  Guide-Book.  Here,  too,"  Thack- 
eray continues,  "  great  improvements  are  taking 
place  for  the  Shannon  navigation,  which  will 
render  the  town  not  so  inconvenient  as  at  present 
it  is  stated  to  be  ;  and  hard  by  lies  a  little  village 
that  is  known  and  loved  by  all  the  world  where 
English  is  spoken.  It  is  called  Lishoy,  but  its 

156 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

real  name  is  Auburn,  and  it  gave  birth  to  one 
Noll  Goldsmith,  whom  Mr.  Boswell  was  in  the 
habit  of  despising  very  heartily." 

Thackeray  was  right  to  qualify  what  he  calls 
the  "  commination  of  the  Guide-Book."  Athlone, 
the  most  convenient  point  for  a  visit  to  Gold- 
smith's "  Deserted  Village,"  is,  on  the  whole,  of 
all  the  many  provincial  towns  I  visited  in  a  tour 
which  embraced  the  greater  part  of  Ireland, 
decidedly  the  most  pleasing  and  picturesque,  — 
the  most  pleasing,  even  apart  from  its  associa- 
tions with  Goldsmith.  Starting  from  the  one 
bridge  of  the  town,  which  spans  the  broad  Shan- 
non and  links  the  two  parts  of  Athlone  together, 
the  main  street  of  the  place  straggles  gently  up- 
ward, and  soon  merges  into  the  charming  country 
road  which  stretches  out  to  Auburn.  Thus  far 
the  citizens  of  the  midland  town  have  done  little 
to  cultivate  the  gentle  art  of  laying  traps  for  the 
literary  pilgrim.  "  There  are  two  hotels  in  Ath- 
lone," said  an  Irishman  to  me  when  I  was  miles 
away  from  the  place,  "and  whichever  one  you 
go  to,  you  will  wish  you  had  gone  to  the  other." 
That  main  street  in  which  those  two  lucky-bag 
hotels  are  situated,  and  the  old  castle,  are  much 
the  same  in  objective  appearance  as  they  were 
during  the  two  years  which  the  boy  Oliver  Gold- 

157 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

smith  spent  in  Athlone  at  that  "  school  of  repute" 
kept  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell.  No  one  knows 
the  fate  of  that  school ;  its  locality  in  the  town 
and  its  history  subsequent  to  the  pupilage  of  its 
most  famous  scholar  are  as  shrouded  in  mystery 
as  the  place  of  his  burial  in  the  Temple  grave- 
yard. Thwarted,  then,  of  the  pleasure  of  paying 
homage  at  that  shrine,  it  only  remains  for  the 
lover  of  Goldsmith  to  diffuse  his  adoration  among 
those  aspects  of  the  town  upon  which  the  eye  of 
his  hero  must  have  fallen.  There  are,  of  course, 
many  houses  in  the  principal  street  which  have 
survived  the  ravages  of  a  century  and  a  half,  in- 
cluding one  three-storied  building,  once  occupied 
by  some  of  Goldsmith's  family  ;  but  probably  the 
hand  of  time  has  rested  with  the  most  ineffective 
touch  upon  the  sturdy  walls  of  Athlone  Castle. 
Some  seven  centuries  have  come  and  gone  since 
those  walls  first  saw  their  own  outlines  reflected 
in  the  placid  waters  of  the  Shannon,  and  between 
then  and  now  the  castle  has  played  no  inconspic- 
uous part  in  Irish  history. 

But  Athlone  —  "  the  ford  of  the  moon,"  from 
Ath  Luain,  a  name  given  because  there  was  a 
ford  here  used  in  pagan  times  by  worshippers  of 
the  moon  —  is  of  primary  interest  just  now  as 
the  starting-point  for  a  visit  to  that  village  hard 

158 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

by  in  which  Thackeray  makes  Goldsmith  to  be 
born.  Of  course  he  was  wrong  in  naming  Lishoy 
as  Goldsmith's  natal  place,  for  that  honour  be- 
longs to  Pallas  in  county  Longford  ;  but  as  Lis- 
hoy was  the  home  of  his  boyhood  it  possesses 
quite  equal  interest  for  the  literary  pilgrim. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 

While  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  creating  his  pic- 
ture of  "  The  Deserted  Village,"  had  he  any  model 
before  him  ?  Lord  Macaulay  answers  emphatic- 
ally in  the  negative,  and  affirms  that  there  never 
was  any  such  hamlet  as  Auburn  in  Ireland.  On 
the  other  hand  Professor  Masson  replies  "  yes  " 

159 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

and  "  no "  almost  in  the  same  breath.  "  All 
Goldsmith's  phantasies,"  he  says  first,  "  are  phan- 
tasies of  what  may  be  called  reminiscence.  Less 
than  even  Smollett,  did  Goldsmith  invent.  .  .  . 
He  drew  on  recollections  of  his  own  life,  on  the 
history  of  his  own  family,  on  the  characters  of  his 
relatives,  on  whimsical  incidents  that  had  hap- 
pened to  him  in  his  Irish  youth."  But  Professor 
Masson  soon  forgets  his  own  statements,  and  then 
adds  that  "  we  are  in  England  and  not  in  Ireland  " 
when  we  read  "  The  Deserted  Village."  This  is 
rather  bewildering,  but  happily  Mr.  William 
Black  dispels  the  criticisms  of  Lord  Macaulay 
and  Professor  Masson  by  the  penetrating  remark 
that  they  overlook  one  of  the  radical  facts  of 
human  nature,  that  is,  the  magnifying  delight  of 
the  mind  in  what  is  long  remembered  and  remote. 
"  What  was  it,"  Mr.  Black  asks,  "  that  the  imagi- 
nation of  Goldsmith,  in  his  life-long  banishment, 
could  not  see  when  he  looked  back  to  the  home 
of  his  childhood,  and  his  early  friends,  and  the 
sports  and  occupations  of  his  youth  ?  Lishoy  was 
no  doubt  a  poor  enough  Irish  village ;  and  per- 
haps the  farms  were  not  too  well  cultivated ;  and 
perhaps  the  village  preacher,  who  was  so  dear  to 
all  the  country  round,  had  to  administer  many  a 
thrashing  to  a  certain  graceless  son  of  his ;  and 

160 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

perhaps  Paddy  Byrne  was  something  of  a  pedant ; 
and  no  doubt  pigs  ran  over  the  '  nicely  sanded 
floor '  of  the  inn  ;  and  no  doubt  the  village  states- 
men occasionally  indulged  in  a  free  fight.  But 
do  you  think  that  was  the  Lishoy  that  Goldsmith 
thought  of  in  his  dreary  lodgings  in  Fleet  Street 
courts  ?  No.  It  was  the  Lishoy  where  the 
vagrant  lad  had  first  seen  the  '  primrose  peep 
beneath  the  thorn  ; '  where  he  had  listened  to  the 
mysterious  call  of  the  bittern  by  the  unfrequented 
river ;  it  was  a  Lishoy  still  ringing  with  the  glad 
laughter  of  young  people  in  the  twilight  hours  ; 
it  was  a  Lishoy  forever  beautiful,  and  tender, 
and  far  away.  The  grown-up  Goldsmith  had 
not  to  go  to  any  Kentish  village  for  a  model ;  the 
familiar  scenes  of  his  youth,  regarded  with  all 
the  wistfulness  and  longing  of  an  exile,  became 
glorified  enough." 

If  the  cogent  reasoning  set  forth  above  does  not 
convince  the  pilgrim  of  the  authenticity  of  Lishoy 
as  a  shrine  worthy  of  his  devotions,  let  him  turn 
to  "  The  Deserted  Village  "  for  final  confirmation. 
Let  him  ponder,  for  example,  those  pathetic  lines 
which  read  as  though  written  in  tears  and  heart's 
blood  — 

"  In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs  —  and  God  has  given  my  share  — 
11  161 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  : 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return  —  and  die  at  home  at  last." 

Lishoy,  or  "  Auburn,"  as  it  is  much  oftener 
called,  is  about  seven  miles  from  Athlone.  The 
drive  thither,  on  a  mellow  end-of-the-summer 
day,  lingers  in  my  memory  as  a  quietly  moving 
panorama  of  subdued  pastoral  pictures.  Athlone 
is  no  sooner  lost  behind  bosky  trees  and  gently 
swelling  hills  than,  to  the  left,  away  down  there 
at  the  edge  of  emerald  fields,  Killinure  Lough 
holds  up  its  mirror  to  catch  the  mingling  glories 
of  a  cerulean  sky  shot  with  fleecy  clouds.  Slowly 
this  picture  fades  away  and  gives  place  to  an- 
other of  the  village  of  Classen,  than  which  I 
was  to  see  no  more  picturesque  hamlet  in  all 
my  travels  through  Ireland.  Approached  at 
either  end  through  an  avenue  of  spreading  trees, 
the  one  street  of  the  village  is  lined  with  neat 
little  cottages,  now  roofed  with  thatch,  and  anon 

162 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

with  warm  red  tiles.  Although  abutting  sharp 
upon  the  road,  each  house  has  its  climbing  rose 
or  trailing  vine,  and  it  was  the  exception  rather 
than  the  rule  to  note  a  window-sill  without  its 
box  of  flowers.  A  mile  or  so  further,  and  the 


GLASSEN  VILLAGE 

road  dips  down  between  rows  of  pines  and 
beeches,  the  pronounced  lines  of  the  one  accen- 
tuating the  flowing  outlines  of  the  other.  And 
so  the  jaunting-car  bowls  merrily  on,  pausing  at 
last  before  the  ruins  of  the  Goldsmith  house. 
Now  the  pilgrim  seems  to  tread  familiar  ground. 
The  journey  has  taken  him  through  scenes  which 

163 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

recall  no  associations,  but  at  the  sight  of  these 
falling  walls,  unseen  before,  the  lips  murmur 
almost  unconsciously : 

"  Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose." 

And  no  sooner  does  the  mind  assent  to  the 
accuracy  of  Goldsmith's  description  of  the  out- 
ward setting  of  the  house  than  memory  offers 
her  aid  to  the  imagination  in  an  effort  to  call 
up  again  some  of  the  scenes  which  passed  within 
its  walls : 

"  His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  — 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away, 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began." 

This  house  must  have  been  a  spacious  one  for 
a  Protestant  village  parson  in  Ireland.  It  stands 

164. 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

back  some  two  hundred  yards  from  the  road,  and 
is  approached  by  a  broad  avenue  of  springy  grass, 
bordered  with  fine  old  trees.  Five  windows  and 
two  stories  give  hints  of  ample  accommodation, 
and  the  walls  are  so  stoutly  made  that  the  build- 


THE  "GLASSY  BROOK" 


ing,  considering  its  history,  might  well  be  restored 
to  a  habitable  condition  again. 

Leaving  the  Goldsmith  house  on  the  left,  a 
walk  of  a  few  hundred  paces  along  the  road  that 
turns  sharply  round  past  its  end  brings  the  pil- 
grim to  an  admirable  standpoint  from  which  to 
gain  an  adequate  impression  of  "  Sweet  Auburn  " 

167 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

as  a  whole.  Irregularly  hedged  pastures  rise  and 
fall  in  gentle  undulations,  and  the  road  has  that 
welcome  grass-fringe  so  common  in  England  and 
Ireland  but  so  rare  in  Scotland.  Here  and  there 


THE   "  BUSY  MILL" 

the  outline  of  the  hedges  is  broken  by  tapering 
or  spreading  trees,  and  through  those  trees  peep 
glimpses  of  the  "  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated 
farm."  No  wonder  that  the  memory  of  this 
peaceful  spot  soothed  the  unstrung  spirit  of  the 
London-pent  Goldsmith  ;  no  wonder  he  brooded 
with  such  delicious  painful  sorrow  over  those 
visions  of  the  happy  past  which  thronged  his 

168 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

brain;    no  wonder  he  poured   out  his  heart  in 
that  pathetic  apostrophe: 

"  O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  the  world,  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  !  " 


THE  "DECEVT  CHURCH'' 

Of  the  many  sights  of  Auburn  that  were 
familiar  to  Goldsmith's  eyes,  only  a  few  remain. 
The  "  busy  mill "  is  still  there,  but  idle  now  for 
many  a  year,  and  roofless  and  overgrown  with 
tangled  weeds.  Close  by,  too,  is  the  "  glassy 
brook,"  more  true  to  its  name  than  would  be 

169 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

imagined  from  the  poem,  so  perfect  is  its  reflec- 
tion of  hedge  and  sky.  A  mile  or  so  away  a 
"decent  church"  tops  the  hill,  occupying  the 
same  site  and  doubtless  perpetuating  the  outward 

image  of  the  building 
in  which  the  boy  Oliver 
often  listened  to  the 
sermons  of  the  Vicar 
ofWakefield.  Not  far 
distant,  on  the  summit 
of  a  modest  hill  that 
rises  from  the  road- 
side, stands  a  rudely 
built  circular  stone  pil- 
lar, which  is  said  to 
mark  the  exact  cen- 
tre of  Ireland.  The 
wayfarer  in  these 
parts  cannot  resist  the 
thought  that  in  the 

THE  CEVTRE  OF  IRELAND  near  future?  when  Ire. 

land  gets  its  share  of  those  who  travel  in  search 
alike  of  the  beautiful  and  the  shrines  of  the 
great,  this  Goldsmith  country  will  become  in- 
deed the  centre  of  the  Green  Isle. 

Such,  then,  are  some  of  the  objective  forms 
which  conduct  the  visitor  to   Lishoy  into  the 

170 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

realm  of  imagination,  and  their  task  is  made  all 
the  easier  by  those  innumerable  other  subjective 
shapes  which  people  these  lanes  and  fields  with 
the  children  of  a  far-off  generation.  And  yet 
they  are  not  far-off'  from  us ;  their  joys  and  sor- 
rows are  akin  to  our  own ;  their  living  human 
nature  makes  them  of  that  family  which  has 
no  yesterday  nor  morrow. 


GOLDSMITH'S  GRAVE  IN  THE  TEMPLE,  LONDON 


171 


VII 
BURNS    IN   AYRSHIRE 


VII 

BURNS   IN  AYRSHIRE 

"  The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky  ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven  s  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory  ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story." 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

BURNS  lived  for  thirty-seven  years,  and  he  spent 
twenty-seven  of  them  in  Ayrshire.  A  line 
drawn  on  the  map  of  that  county  from  Irvine 
in  the  north  to  Kirkoswald  in  the  south,  de- 
flected through  Kilmarnock,  Mauchline,  and 
Dalrymple,  embraces  his  homes  and  haunts  prior 
to  the  triumphal  appearance  in  Edinburgh. 
But  Irvine,  Kilmarnock,  and  Kirkoswald  only 
retained  the  poet  for  a  brief  season ;  the  first 
was  the  scene  of  his  disastrous  attempt  to  learn 
flax-dressing,  the  second  only  claimed  him  while 
he  was  seeing  his  poems  through  the  press,  and 
the  third  witnessed  his  brief  apprenticeship  to 

175 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  art  of  mensuration.  Hence  a  more  restricted 
line  will  include  all  of  Ayrshire  associated  with 
the  greater  portion  of  Burns's  life.  It  must  start 
from  Alloway,  run  out  to  Mount  Oliphant,  turn 
back  and  pass  through  Tarbolton,  touch  at  Moss- 
giel,  and  end  in  Mauchline.  A  small  theatre  for 
great  deeds. 

Scotland's  two  greatest  peasant  writers  — 
Burns  and  Carlyle  —  were  both  born  in  houses 
of  their  fathers'  own  building.  In  the  case  of 
Carlyle's  father,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a  mason, 
this  is  not  particularly  remarkable ;  but  the  fact 
that  Burns's  father  reared  with  his  own  hands 
the  now  famous  cottage  at  Alloway  is  significant 
of  much  in  the  character  of  the  man.  From 
the  days  of  his  early  manhood,  when  poverty 
drove  him  from  home  on  his  long  search  after 
the  bare  necessaries  of  life,  to  the  closing  scene 
at  Lochlea,  William  Burns  was  engaged  in  a 
never-ceasing  struggle  to  wrest  from  the  earth 
a  fitting  sustenance  for  himself  and  family,  and 
the  only  remaining  monument  of  any  conquest 
he  made  is  to  be  seen  in  "  auld  clay  biggin " 
where  his  immortal  son  was  born. 

Alloway  was  once  a  separate  parish,  but 
towards  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  it 
was  united  with  that  of  Ayr,  from  the  town 

176 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

of  which  it  is  some  two  miles  distant.  The  ap- 
proach from  Ayr  to  Alloway  is  characteristic- 
ally twentieth  century.  Small  semi-detached 
villas  line  the  road  on  either  side,  and  these  fade 
away  only  to  give  place  to  the  larger  and  more 
pretentious  mansions  of  county  magnates,  with  a 
race-course  for  a  background.  The  Burns  cot- 
tage itself  has  rather  too  much  the  air  of  a 
commercial  show-place,  with  its  conventional 
turnstile  and  persistent  charge  of  twopence  for 
admission.  There  are  relics  in  plenty  scattered 
around,  from  the  bed  in  which  the  poet  was 
born,  to  the  spinning-wheel  of  his  mother ;  but 
somehow  the  air  seems  stifling  to  the  literary 
pilgrim,  and  he  is  glad  to  escape  from  the  white 
glare  of  mediocre  sculpture  and  the  sheen  of 
coffee  urns  —  all  duly  displayed  in  the  temperance 
refreshment-room  attached  to  the  cottage  —  to 
the  freer  atmosphere  outside. 

A  few  hundred  yards  down  the  road,  in  the 
direction  of  the  "  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie 
Doon,"  the  gaunt  gables  of  "  Alloway 's  auld 
haunted  kirk  "  rear  themselves  high  in  the  air. 
At  once  the  apposite  remark  of  Nathaniel  Haw- 
thorne flashes  across  the  mind :  "  Kirk  Alloway 
is  inconceivably  small,  considering  how  large  a 
space  it  fills  in  our  imagination  before  we  see 
12  177 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

it."  Its  place  in  literature,  as  the  scene  of  the 
midnight  orgies  witnessed  by  Tarn  O'  Shanter, 
was  secured  by  a  mere  accident.  In  the  fall  of 
the  year  1790,  one  Captain  Grose  happened  to 
be  travelling  through  Scotland  intent  on  anti- 


ALLOWAY'S  "  AULD  HAUNTED  KIRK" 

quarian  study.  His  path  crossed  that  of  Burns, 
who  was  then  trying  his  last  farming  experiment 
at  Ellisland,  and  the  two  soon  became  "  unco 
pack  and  thick  thegither."  The  poet  one  day 
pressed  the  claims  of  Alloway  Kirk  on  the  anti- 
quarian's notice  and  Captain  Grose  agreed  to 
make  a  drawing  of  the  building  on  condition  that 

178 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  poet  furnished  an  appropriate  witch-story  as 
comment.  A  bargain  was  struck,  and  the  result 
was  Tarn  O'  Shanter. 

From  his  childhood  to  his  eighteenth  year, 
Burns  had  been  familiar  with  the  old  ruin,  and 
his  mind  was  stored  with  gruesome  evil-spirit 
tragedies  of  which  it  had  been  the  theatre.  It 
was  easy  to  draw  upon  these  memories  for  his 
share  of  the  bargain  with  Captain  Grose,  and  not 
less  easy,  apparently,  to  immortalise  the  exploits 
of  Tarn  O'  Shanter,  for  the  poem  is  said  to  have 
been  written  in  a  day.  And  now  Kirk  Alloway 
is  only  interesting  for  Tarn  O'  Shanter's  sake. 
All  its  associations  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of 
past  generations,  its  witnessings  of  baptism,  mar- 
riage, and  funeral,  its  memories  of  contrition  and 
aspiration  under  the  spell  of  Christian  exhorta- 
tion and  promise,  have  faded  away,  and  the  ear 
of  imagination  loses  the  echoes  of  holy  psalm  in 
the  skirl  of  that  untoward  music  which  fell  upon 
the  astonished  ears  of  Tarn  O'  Shanter. 

That  "  winnock-bunker  in  the  east,"  where  sat 
the  beast-shaped  musician  of  that  unholy  revel, 
the  opened  coffins  whence  were  thrust  the  pallid 
hands  that  held  aloft  the  blazing  torches,  the 
"span-lang"  bairns  who  gazed  with  wide-eyed 
amazement  on  the  swiftly  moving  dance,  the  win- 

179 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

dow  which  framed  the  absorbed  face  of  Tarn 
O'  S banter — these  are  the  sights  the  eye  seeks  in 
Alloway  Kirk.  Outside  its  walls,  and  among  the 
crowded  graves  which  jostle  each  other  with 
unseemly  obstinacy  in  this  scant  God's  acre,  the 
eye  wanders  in  quest  of  William  Burns's  tomb. 


GRAVE  OF  BURNS'S  FATHER 

Unquestionably  the  father  of  Robert  Burns 
had  a  double  right  to  a  resting-place  in  the 
shadow  of  Kirk  Alloway ;  the  right  of  the  man 
whose  son  lifted  it  into  the  realm  of  poesy,  and 
the  right  of  the  man  who,  years  before,  rebuilt 
the  ruined  walls  of  its  graveyard.  It  was  natu- 

180 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

ral,  then,  that  William  Burns  should  wish  to  be 
buried  in  Alloway  Churchyard,  and  when  he  at 
last  laid  down  the  burden  of  life  at  Lochlea  in 
1784,  his  widow  and  children  did  not  hesitate  as 
to  where  his  dust  should  rest.  The  small  head- 
stone which  was  at  first  reared  over  the  grave  has 
given  place  to  the  more  substantial  memorial  of 
the  present  day,  on  the  back  of  which  the  son's 
affectionate  tribute  is  inscribed  : 

"  O  ye  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pity  stains, 
Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend  ! 
Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains, 
The  tender  father,  and  the  gen'rous  friend  ; 
The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe, 
The  dauntless  heart  that  fear'd  no  human  pride ; 
The  friend  of  man  —  to  vice  alone  a  foe  ; 
For  'e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side.'  " 

It  was  a  lucky  chance  for  Tarn  O'  Shanter  that 
the  river  Doon  and  its  "  auld  brig  "  were  within 
easy  hail  of  Alloway  Kirk.  That  irrepressible 
"Weel  done,  Cutty-sark ! "  started  the  whole 
pack  of  midnight  revellers  at  his  horse's  heels : 

"  Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  Keystane  o'  the  brig : 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross." 

The  Doon  has  a  new  bridge  now  to  bear  the 
burden  of  twentieth-century  traffic,  but  the  "auld 

181 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

brig "  still  spans  the  lovely  river,  an  indubitable 
link  between  our  own  time  and  the  stormy 
night  of  Tarn  O1  Shanter's  ride.  Other  memories 
than  those  of  Tarn  O'  Shanter  crowd  into  the 
mind  while  musing  by  the  side  of  the  clear- 
running  Doon.  Here  are  the  shows  of  nature 


THE  BRIG  o'  DOON 

which  were  frail  and  vain  to  weep  a  loss  that 
turned  their  lights  to  shade.  Sacred  through  all 
time  are  these  banks  and  braes  to  the  memory 
of  that  disconsolate  wanderer  who  reproached  the 
birds  for  singing  and  the  flowers  for  blooming, 
but  had  no  harsh  thought  for  that  "  fause  lover" 
who  had  thrown  her  out  of  harmony  with  nature. 

182 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

In  Burns's  seventh  year  the  scene  of  his  life 
shifted  from  Alloway  to  Mount  Oliphant,  a  small 
seventy-acre  farm  some  two  miles  distant.  This 
was  to  be  his  home  for  more  than  ten  years.  The 
outward  setting  of  Mount  Oliphant  is  probably 
little  different  from  what  it  was  in  the  poet's 
day,  though  the  farm  buildings  have  necessarily 
been  considerably  remodelled  and  enlarged. 
The  new  era  which  opened  for  Burns  with  his 
removal  thither  was  of  far-reaching  importance ; 
he  confessed  to  Dr.  Moore  that  it  was  during 
the  time  he  lived  on  that  farm  that  his  story 
was  most  eventful.  There,  indeed,  now  from 
the  worthy  Murdoch,  now  from  the  lips  of 
his  remarkable  father,  and  anon  at  the  par- 
ish school  of  Dalrymple,  he  acquired  most  of 
the  knowledge  which  teachers  can  impart,  and 
there,  too,  he  experienced  "  the  cheerless  gloom 
of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley- 
slave." 

One  incident  of  the  Mount  Oliphant  days  re- 
vealed the  deep  tenderness  of  the  poet's  heart. 
It  happened  that  Murdoch,  the  old  teacher  of 
Robert  and  Gilbert,  visited  the  farm  one  night 
to  take  farewell  of  his  friends  ere  leaving  for 
another  part  of  the  country,  and  brought  with 
him  a  copy  of  "  Titus  Andronicus  "  as  a  parting 

183 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

present  to  his  pupils.  When  the  day's  work  was 
done,  and  the  family  gathered  together,  Murdoch 
began  to  read  the  play  aloud.  He  had  got  to 
the  fifth  scene  of  the  second  act,  where  Lavinia 
appears  with  her  hands  cut  off  and  her  tongue 


MOUNT   OLIPHANT 

cut  out,  but  when  he  reached  the  taunting  words 
of  Chiron,  "  Go  home,  call  for  sweet  water,  wash 
thy  hands,"  the  entire  family  besought  him,  with 
tears,  to  cease  reading.  The  father  remarked  that 
if  they  would  not  hear  the  end  of  the  tragedy  it 
would  be  useless  to  leave  the  book,  whereupon 
Robert  at  once  struck  in  with  the  threat  that 
if  it  were  left  he  would  burn  it ! 

184 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

It  was  not  without  good  cause  that  the  poet 
complained  of  the  hermit-like  existence  that  fell 
to  his  lot  on  this  farm.  Gilbert  says :  "  Nothing 
could  be  more  retired  than  our  general  manner 
of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant ;  we  rarely  saw 
anybody  but  the  members  of  our  own  family. 
There  were  no  boys  of  our  own  age  or  near 
it  in  the  neighbourhood/'  This  was  not  alto- 
gether a  disadvantage.  Burns  was  thus  driven 
in  upon  himself,  and  to  the  study  of  such  books 
as  the  family  possessed  or  could  borrow.  But 
it  was  a  hard  life  he  lived  at  Mount  Oliphant. 
He  had  to  labour  in  the  fields  to  an  extent  far 
beyond  his  strength,  and  to  subsist  on  food  of 
the  poorest  description.  This  continued  to  his 
fifteenth  autumn,  and  then  he  awoke  to  love 
and  poetry,  —  henceforth  the  dual  consolation 
of  his  life. 

It  was  harvest-time.  In  his  work  amid  the 
golden  grain  it  was  the  fortune  of  Burns  to 
have  for  partner  a  "  bewitching  creature  "  a  year 
younger  than  himself ;  "  a  bonnie,  sweet,  sonsie 
lass."  The  hour  had  come  which  was  to  awaken 
the  singing  soul  of  Burns,  and  unseal  that  fount 
of  lyric  love  in  which  all  after-time  was  to  re- 
joice. The  story  is  best  given  in  his  own  words : 
"  In  short,  she,  altogether  unwittingly  to  herself, 

185 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

initiated  me  in  that  delicious  passion  which,  in 
spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin-horse  prudence, 
and  book- worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first 
of  human  joys,  our  dearest  blessing  here  below. 
How  she  caught  the  contagion  I  cannot  tell ; 
you  medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  from 
breathing  the  same  air,  the  same  touch,  etc. ; 
but  I  never  expressly  said  I  loved  her.  Indeed 
I  did  not  know  myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to 
loiter  behind  with  her,  when  returning  in  the 
evening  from  our  labour ;  why  the  tones  of  her 
voice  made  my  heart-strings  thrill  like  an  ^Eolian 
harp ;  and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  such 
a  furious  '  rat- tan,'  when  I  looked  and  fingered 
over  her  little  hand  to  pick  out  the  cruel  nettle- 
stings  and  thistles.  Among  her  other  love- 
inspiring  qualities,  she  sang  sweetly ;  and  it  was 
her  favourite  reel  to  which  1  attempted  giving 
an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so 
presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make 
verses  like  the  printed  ones,  composed  by  men 
who  had  Greek  and  Latin,  but  my  girl  sang  a 
song  which  was  said  to  be  composed  by  a  small 
country  laird's  son,  on  one  of  his  father's  maids, 
with  whom  he  was  in  love,  and  I  saw  no  reason 
why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ;  for  ex- 
cepting that  he  could  smear  sheep  and  cut  peats, 

186 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more 
scholar-craft  than  myself.  Thus  with  me  began 
love  and  poetry." 

Still,    Mount   Oliphant   cannot  have   been   a 
happy  home  for  the   Burns   family.     The   poor 


LOCHLEA  FARM 

and  hungry  soil  of  the  farm  entailed  constant 
labour  on  every  member  of  the  family  able  to 
do  a  hand's  turn,  and  with  all  their  efforts,  no 
adequate  recompense  was  forthcoming.  Hence 
it  must  have  been  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
they  turned  their  back  upon  the  scene  of  such 
hardships  to  make  a  new  trial  of  life  on  the 
farm  at  Lochlea.  This  new  home  of  Burns  — 

187 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

where  the  next  seven  years  of  his  life  were 
spent  —  was  situated  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
parish  of  Tarbolton.  It  lies  in  a  hollow,  and 
took  its  name  from  a  small  loch,  now  no  longer 
in  existence.  Take  it  for  all  in  all,  Lochlea 
was  perhaps  the  happiest  home  the  poet  ever 
had.  Life  never  moved  more  smoothly  for 
him  than  during  the  first  few  years  in  Tarbol- 
ton parish,  and  as  yet  his  ungovernable  pas- 
sions had  not  brought  him  into  contact  with 
kirk-sessions  and  the  severer  reprimands  of  his 
own  conscience. 

Gilbert  Burns  used  to  speak  of  this  period  as 
the  brightest  in  his  brother's  life,  and  was  wont 
to  recall  with  delight  the  happy  days  they  spent 
together  in  farm  work,  when  Robert  was  sure  to 
enliven  the  tedium  of  labour  with  his  unrivalled 
conversation.  It  was  at  Lochlea  that  the  inci- 
dent occurred  which  prompted  "  The  Death  and 
Dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,"  and  in  a  low-lying 
field  near  the  house  the  spot  where  that  famous 
ewe  nearly  committed  suicide  is  still  pointed 
out.  Other  first  fruits  of  poesy  were  gathered 
during  these  peaceful  days,  and  many  of  the 
seeds  planted  which  were  to  yield  such  a  pro- 
lific harvest  at  Mossgiel. 

Tarbolton  village,  some  two  miles  distant  from 

188 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Lochlea,  naturally  figures  largely  in  this  period 
of  Burns's  life.  Its  chief  street  still  retains  some 
continuity  with  the  past.  Sandwiched  in  here 
and  there  between  houses  of  recent  date  may  be 
seen  many  of  the  rough-cast,  thatch -covered  cot- 
tages common  in  the  poet's  time.  Among  mod- 
ern buildings,  the  most  conspicuous  are  a  public 


TARBOLTOV 

library  and  a  masonic  hall.  The  latter,  which 
contains  some  valuable  Burns  relics,  has  not  been 
erected  many  years,  but  is  already  permeated 
with  dry  rot  and  is  in  a  filthy  condition.  The 
library  contains  about  two  thousand  volumes, 
and  the  only  Burns  literature  visible  is  an  odd 

189 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

volume  of  a  three-volumed  edition  of  the  poems  ! 
It  is  not  surprising,  then,  to  hear  the  Tarbolton 
people  frankly  confess  that  they  "  take  no  in- 
terest in  Burns." 

There  are  various  links  connecting  Burns  with 
Tarbolton,  one  being  recalled  by  that  sentence  in 
his  autobiography  which  runs  :  "  At  the  plough, 
scythe,  or  reap-hook,  I  feared  no  competitor,  and 
set  want  at  defiance  ;  and  as  I  never  cared  further 
for  any  labours  than  while  I  was  in  actual  exer- 
cise, /  spent  the  evening  in  the  way  after  my  own 
heart"  The  beginning  of  this  appears  to  have 
been  attendance  at  a  dancing-school  in  Tarbol- 
ton. Such  institutions  are  still  the  common  in- 
troductions to  courtship  in  rural  Scotland,  and 
in  the  case  of  Burns  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
his  dancing-school  experiences  led  to  those  innu- 
merable love  episodes  which  now  began  to  bulk 
so  largely  in  his  history. 

Gilbert  Burns,  writing  of  this  period,  says  his 
brother  "  was  constantly  the  victim  of  some  fair 
enslaver,"  and  David  Sillar,  a  boon  companion 
of  the  poet,  remarks  that  he  was  frequently 
struck  with  Burns's  facility  in  addressing  the  fair 
sex.  The  Lochlea  loves  have  left  their  impress 
on  his  poems.  The  mansion  house  of  Coilsfield 
—  transformed  by  the  poet  to,  and  known  as, 

190 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Montgomery  Castle  —  is  in  the  vicinity  of  Tar- 
bolton,  and  two  of  its  servants  were  fated  to 
find  immortality  through  the  young  farmer  of 
Lochlea.  The  first  was  the  heroine  of  "  Mont- 
gomerie's  Peggy."  She  was  housekeeper  at  Coils- 
field,  and  Burns  says  of  her  that  she  was  his 
deity  for  six  or  eight  months.  He  adds  :  "  She 
had  been  bred  in  a  style  of  life  rather  elegant, 
but  (as  Vanbrugh  says  in  one  of  his  plays)  my 
'  damned  star  found  me  out '  there  too ;  for  al- 
though I  began  the  affair  merely  in  a  gaiete  de 
cceur,  it  will  scarcely  be  believed  that  a  vanity  of 
showing  my  parts  in  courtship,  particularly  my 
abilities  at  a  billet-doux  (which  I  always  piqued 
myself  upon),  made  me  lay  siege  to  her.  When 
—  as  I  always  do  in  my  foolish  gallantries  —  I 
had  battered  myself  into  a  very  warm  affection 
for  her,  she  one  day  told  me,  in  a  flag  of  truce, 
that  her  fortress  had  been  for  some  time  before 
the  rightful  property  of  another.  I  found  out 
afterwards,  that  what  she  told  me  of  a  pre- 
engagement  was  really  true  ;  but  it  cost  me  some 
heartaches  to  get  rid  of  the  affair." 

There  is  a  tradition  that  "  Highland  Mary  "  — 
that  is,  Mary  Campbell  —  was  at  one  time  dairy- 
maid at  Coilsfield,  and  it  is  not  improbable  that 
Burns  first  made  her  acquaintance  there.  At 

191 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


any  rate,  the  lovely  rivulet  Fail,  which  runs 
through  the  grounds  of  Montgomery  Castle, 
mingles  with  the  nature-background  of  his  most 
famous  song  to  Mary's  memory : 

"  Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery  ! 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  : 
There  Summer  first  unfald  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  Farewell 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary  ! " 


But  there  was 
another  side  to 
Burns's  evenings 
from  home.  So- 
ciable by  nature, 
he  availed  himself 
of  every  opportu- 
nity of  convivial 
intercourse  with 
young  men  of  his 
own  age  and  sta- 
tion. Hence  the 
creation  of  that 
Bachelor's  Club, 
where  the  topics 


ON  THE  FAIL 


192 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

for  discussion  seem  to  have  been  selected  on  the 
principle  of  consoling  its  members  for  their  tem- 
porary absence  from  the  fair  sex.  Hence,  too, 
Burns's  action  in  becoming  a  Freemason.  His 
initiation  took  place  on  July  4, 1781,  and  the  old 
thatched  cottage 
in  which  the  cere- 
mony took  place 
still  stands  at  the 
corner  of  Mauch- 
line  Road.  It 
was  at  a  meeting 
of  the  lodge  that 
the  idea  of  "Death  , . 

MASONIC  LODGE,  TARBOLTON 

and  Dr.  Horn- 
book" took  shape.  John  Wilson,  the  Tarbolton 
schoolmaster,  who  eked  out  his  scholastic  earn- 
ings by  amateur  physicking,  one  evening  paraded 
his  medical  knowledge  in  such  an  ostentatious 
manner  that  Burns  resolved,  on  his  way  home, 
to  hold  the  dominie-medico  up  to  ridicule. 
With  what  result  the  world  knows.  The  scene 
of  the  dialogue  between  I^urns  and  Death  is 
laid  just  outside  Tarbolton.  Leaving  the  old 
Masonic  Lodge  on  the  right,  the  road  winds 
"  round  about "  a  high  mound,  and  then  descends 

toward  Willie's  Mill.     In  the  bank  by  the  road- 
is  193 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

side,  under  the  shadow  of  a  hedge,  local  tradi- 
tion points  to  a  few  rough,  projecting  stones  as 
the  seat  where  the  poet  and  his  gaunt  friend 
"eased  their  shanks"  while  discussing  the  skill 
of  Dr.  Hornbook. 


WILLIE'S   MILL 

When  William  Burns  died  in  1784,  the  last 
link  was  snapped  which  held  his  family  at  Loch- 
lea.  Prior  to  that  event,  however,  Robert  and 
Gilbert  had  taken  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  "  as  an 
asylum  for  the  family  in  case  of  the  worst." 
With  the  removal  to  Mossgiel,  the  poet  took  a 
resolve  to  mend  his  ways  and  address  himself 
seriously  to  the  work  of  life.  "  I  read  farming 

194 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

books,"  he  said,  "  I  calculated  crops,  I  attended 
markets,  and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  the  devil,  and 
the  world,  and  the  flesh,  I  believe  I  should  have 
been  a  wise  man  ;  but  the  first  year,  from  unfor- 
tunately buying  bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a  late 
harvest,  we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  overset  all 
my  wisdom,  and  I  returned  like  the  dog  to  his 
vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed  to  her 
wallowing  in  the  mire." 

It  is  impossible  to  doubt  that  Burns  really  de- 
sired to  settle  down  for  himself.  Already  he 
had  made  several  efforts  in  that  direction,  each 
of  which  had  been  remorselessly  thwarted.  He 
groped  about  for  the  clue  which  should  enable 
him  to  unravel  his  life  in  an  orderly  fashion  ;  but 
it  was  his  misfortune  always  to  lay  hold  of  a 
loop  in  the  skein,  and  by  violent  tugging  at  that 
to  reduce  the  whole  to  a  hopeless  tangle.  "  The 
great  misfortune  of  my  life,"  he  confesses,  "  was 
to  want  an  aim."  At  first,  Mossgiel  promised  to 
provide  that  aim.  His  father  was  dead  ;  on  him 
and  his  brother  Gilbert  had  devolved  the  care  of 
the  widowed  mother  and  her  other  fatherless 
children.  But  the  trinity  of  evil  proved  too 
strong  for  the  poet.  The  world,  in  the  shape  of 
convivial  companions ;  the  devil,  in  the  form 
of  bad  seed  and  late  harvests ;  the  flesh,  in  the 

195 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

enchantments  of  love,  —  these  met  Burns's  reso- 
lution in  a  stern  stand-up  fight,  and  speedily 
won  a  complete  victory.  Hence  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  Mossgiel  period  was  of  crucial  importance 
in  the  life  of  Burns ;  it  made  his  weakness  as 
a  man  and  his  powers  as  a  poet  patent  to  the 
world. 

Mossgiel  farm  is  situated  in  the  parish  of 
Mauchline,  from  the  town  of  which  name  it  is 
about  a  mile  distant.  Whatever  it  may  have 
been  in  the  poet's  time,  it  strikes  the  visitor  in 
these  days  as  a  most  desirable  home.  Although 
written  more  than  seventy  years  ago,  Words- 
worth's sonnet  is  still  accurate  in  its  chief 
outlines : 

" '  There  ! '  said  a  Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride 
Towards  a  low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealed, 
'  Is  Mossgiel  Farm  ;  and  that 's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy.'     Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretched  seaward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose  : 
And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 
Beneath  '  the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone ' 
Myriads  of  daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away ;  less  happy  than  the  One 
That,  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare,  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love." 
196 


MOSSGIEL  FARM 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

The  house  stands  on  a  high  ridge,  some  sixty 
yards  back  from  the  road,  and  is  screened  with 
the  stalwart  thorn  hedge  which  the  poet  and  his 
brother  are  said  to  have  planted.  Its  walls  have 
been  considerably  raised  since  it  was  Burns's 
home,  and  the  roof  of  thatch  has  given  place  to 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  DAISY 

one  of  slates.  When  Hawthorne  visited  it  in 
1857,  and  forced  his  way  inside  in  the  absence 
of  the  family,  he  found  it  remarkable  for  nothing 
so  much  as  its  dirt  and  dunghill  odour.  There 
is  neither  dirt  nor  odour  to-day.  The  goodwife 
of  the  present  occupant  of  Mossgiel,  Mr.  Wyllie, 
keeps  her  house  spotlessly  clean,  notwithstanding 

199 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  demands  made  upon  her  time  by  innumer- 
able inquisitive  visitors.  On  the  parlour  table 
lies  a  copious  visitors'  book,  and  in  the  same 
room  hang  the  manuscript  of  "  The  Lass  o'  Bal- 
lochmyle,"  and  the  letter  in  which  Burns  asked 
Miss  Alexander's  permission  to  publish  the  song. 
At  the  back  of  the  house  lies  the  field  where 
Burns  turned  down  the  daisy,  and  the  soil 
"  seems  to  have  been  consecrated  to  daisies  by 
the  song  which  he  bestowed  on  that  first  immor- 
tal one."  Over  the  hedge,  there  is  the  other 
field  where  the  poet's  ploughshare  tore  up  the 
mouse's  nest. 

The  neighbouring  town  of  Mauchline  is  a  cen- 
tral spot  in  the  history  of  Burns.  In  its  dancing- 
hall  he  first  met  Jean  Armour,  the  inspirer  of 
many  of  his  deathless  songs,  and  the  destined 
wifely  companion  of  his  fortunes  ;  under  the  roof 
of  Poosie  Nansie's  hostel  he  saw  the  tattered 
vagrants  whom  his  imagination  transferred  to 
the  pages  of  literature  in  "  The  Jolly  Beggars  ; " 
outside  the  old  church  he  often  witnessed  those 
unseemly  incidents  so  unsparingly  satirised  in 
"The  Holy  Fair;"  Mauchline  Castle  was  the 
home  of  his  warm-hearted  friend,  Gavin  Ham- 
ilton, and  the  scene  of  several  interesting  events 
in  his  own  life ;  and  in  the  churchyard  sleep 

200 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


THE  COWGATE,   MAUCHLIKE 

many  whom  he  marked  as  targets  for  invective 
or  subjects  for  eulogy.  Perhaps  because  it  is 
not  quite  such  a  rural  outpost,  Mauchline  has 

201 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

changed  more  than  Tarbolton.  Still,  there  are 
many  buildings  which  take  the  mind  back  to 
the  poet's  time,  and  in  the  main  the  topography 
of  the  place  is  practically  unchanged.  The  Cow- 
gate  illustrates  both  facts.  Here  there  are  sev- 
eral houses  which  have  changed  but  little  during 


POOSIE  NAXSIE'S,  MAUCHLIXE 

the  past  hundred  years,  and  the  position  of  the 
street,  with  the  church  at  the  end,  provides  an 
illuminating  comment  on  that  verse  of  "  The 
Holy  Fair"  which  records  how 

".  .   .   Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 
See,  up  he  's  got  the  word  o'  God, 
202 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

An'  meek  an'  mini  has  view'd  it, 
While  Common-sense  has  ta'en  the  road, 
An'  aff,  an'  up  the  Cowgate 
Fast,  fast  that  day." 

At  the  corner  of  the  Cowgate  stands  Poosie 
Nansie's  hostel,  bearing  upon  its  gable-end  the 


NANSE  TINNOCK'S 

legend  that  it  is  "  The  Jolly  Beggars'  Howf." 
In  the  time  of  Burns  this  cottage  was  a  lodging- 
house  for  vagrants,  and  it  seems  that  the  poet 
and  some  of  his  companions  were  wont  to  drop 
in  occasionally  late  at  night  to  see  the  maimed 
and  blind  in  their  undress  of  sound  limbs  and 
opened  eyes. 

203 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core 

O'  randie,  gangrel  bodies, 
In  Poosie  Nansie's  held  the  splore, 
To  drink  their  orra  duddies. 
Wi'  quaffing  an'  laughing 

They  ranted  an'  they  sang  ; 
Wi'  jumping  an'  thumping, 
The  vera  girdle  rang." 

Another  resort  of  Burns  in  these  Mauchline 
days  has  honourable  mention  in  one  of  his  early 
poems.  Towards  the  close  of  "The  Author's 
Earnest  Cry  and  Prayer,"  he  exclaims  : 

"  Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o'  auld  Bonconnock's, 
I  '11  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bonnocks, 
An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  Nanse  Tinnock's 

Nine  times  a  week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocks, 

Wad  kindly  seek." 

In  a  footnote  to  the  name  of  Nanse  Tinnock 
the  poet  explained  that  she  was  "  a  worthy  old 
hostess  of  the  author's  in  Mauchline,  where  he 
sometimes  studied  politics  over  a  glass  of  guid, 
auld  Scotch  drink."  Nanse  Tinnock's  house  may 
still  be  seen  down  a  narrow  lane  leading  towards 
the  churchyard,  and  opposite  is  the  cottage  where 
Burns  is  said  to  have  "  taken  up  house "  with 
Jean  Armour. 

From  the  windows  of  this  cottage  a  good  view 
is  obtained  of  Mauchline  Castle,  in  the  business 

204- 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

room  of  which  Burns  is  reputed  to  have  been 
married.     The  castle  has  undergone  little  or  no 
change  these  hun-     r 
dred  years,  and  it 
is    easy  to   recall 
that      Sabbath 
morning  when  the 
worthy      Gavin 
Hamilton,    peti- 
tioned by  his  chil- 
dren for  some  new 

...  MACCHLINE  CASTLE 

potatoes  for  din- 
ner, instructed  his  gardener  to  dig  a  few,  little 
thinking  that  the  eyes  of  the  "unco  guid"  were 
upon  him  and  that  the  Mauchline  kirk-session 
would  bring  him  to  book  for  such  sacrilegious 
fatherly  indulgence. 

Facing  the  head  of  the  main  street  the  vis- 
itor observes  a  building-block  divided  into  several 
houses,  and  his  interest  in  it  is  quickened  when 
he  learns  that  the  house  at  the  near  corner  was 
the  home  of  the  Morrisons.  From  this  house  to 
the  churchyard  is  but  a  few  steps,  and  one  of  the 
first  tombstones  to  arrest  his  attention  reads 
thus  :  "  In  memory  of  Adj.  John  Morrison,  of 
the  104th  Regiment,  who  died  at  Mauchline, 
16th  April,  1804,  in  the  80th  year  of  his  age ; 

205 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 


also  his  daughter  Mary  —  the  Poet's  Bonnie 
Mary  Morrison  —  who  died  29th  June,  1791, 
aged  20."  Other  tombstones  bear  names  or 
are  linked  with  memories  of  men  and  women 
just  as  familiar.  In  a  far-off  corner,  with  a 
whitewashed  wall  for  background,  stands  the 
memorial  of  the  Rev.  William  Auld,  better 
known  to  fame  as  the  "  Daddie  Auld  "  of  "  The 
Kirk's  Alarm."  By  its  side  lie  the  ashes  of 
Johnnie  Richmond,  that  Mauchline  friend  of 

Burns  who  was  his 
first  host  in  Edin- 
burgh. A  time- 
worn  slab  marks 
the  grave  of  Wil- 
liam Fisher,  that 
village  Pharisee 
whose  after  life  and 
death  justified  the 
"  Prayer  "  Burns 

put  in  his  mouth.  The  inscription  has  faded 
away,  but  every  reader  of  Burns  can  supply  the 
epitaph : 

"  Here  Holy  Willie's  sair  worn  clay 

Taks  up  its  last  abode  ; 
His  saul  has  ta'en  some  other  way,  — 
I  fear,  the  left-hand  road." 

206 


MARY  MORRISON'S  HOME 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Not  far  from  Holy  Willie's  grave  is  the  lair  of 
Gavin  Hamilton,  enclosed  with  a  simple  iron 
railing,  but  devoid  of  any  memorial  stone.  Such 
was  the  wish  of  that  worthy  lawyer,  and  hence 
his  epitaph  must  be  sought  in  the  pages  of 
Burns. 

(<  The  poor  man  weeps  —  here  Gavin  sleeps, 

Whom  canting  wretches  blam'd  ; 
But  with  such  as  he,  where'er  he  be, 
May  I  be  sav'd  or  damn'd  !  " 

Adjoining  the  end  of  the  church  is  the  burial- 
place  of  the  Alexanders  of  Ballochmyle,  the  top 
marble  tablet  on  the  left  hand  commemorating 
the  laird  of  the  poet's  time.  One  other  grave 
of  interest  is  that  of  the  Armours,  from  whose 
family  Burns  chose  his  wife,  and  under  the 
prostrate  stone  within  these  railings  the  infant 
daughters  of  the  poet  are  buried. 

One  of  the  favourite  walks  of  Burns  was 
among  the  braes  of  Ballochmyle,  some  two 
miles  distant,  and  no  poet  could  have  made  a 
better  choice  in  the  Mauchline  country-side. 
Close  by,  the  river  Ayr  runs  its  turbulent 
course,  and  between  the  two  he  had  copious 
material  for  poetic  thought.  But,  somehow,  it 
is  humanity  rather  than  nature  which  asserts 
its  supremacy  while  wandering  among  the  Ayr- 

207 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


shire  homes  and  haunts  of  Burns.  It  is  fit  it 
should  be  so,  for  a  large  part  of  the  world's 
debt  to  Burns  consists  in  the  fact  that  he  made 
common  life  classical.  To  coin  quotable  coup- 
lets out  of  the  ordinary  incidents  of  lowliest 
lives  was  his  prerogative.  The  world  sadly 
needed  teaching  to  make  an  ideal  out  of  its 
actual,  and  that  lesson  he  taught.  The  annals 

of  the  poorest 
peasant's  life  are 
now  as  immortal 
as  the  exploits  of 
Hector  or  the  vic- 
tories of  Achilles. 
Little  things  have 
become  great 
things  since  Burns 
sang  of  them. 

The  mouse  is  a  demigod  now  ;  the  daisy  a  flower 
of  Paradise.  The  oft-returning  Saturday  night 
of  the  cottar  is  no  longer  the  common  thing  it 
was  ;  it  is  a  sacrament  of  life. 

Fresh  links  of  sympathy  and  love  between 
man  and  beast  have  been  forged  by  the  pen  of 
Burns,  and  even  the  food  on  our  tables  —  the 
"  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food,"  and 
haggis,  "  great  chieftain  o'  the  pudding-race,"  — 

208 


THE  BANKS  OF  AYR 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

is  as  the  ambrosia  of  the  immortals.  Burns 
achieved  the  apotheosis  of  common  life,  and 
the  height  of  that  achievement  can  nowhere 
be  better  measured  than  among  his  Ayrshire 
homes. 


14  209 


VIII 
KEATS    AND    HIS    CIRCLE 


VIII 

KEATS   AND   HIS  CIRCLE 

"  No  one  else  in  English  poetry,  save  Shakespeare,  has  in 
expression  quite  the  fascinating  felicity  of  Keats,  his  perfection 
of  loveliness.  'I  think,'  he  said  humbly,  'I  shall  be  among  the 
English  poets  after  my  death'  He  is  ;  he  is  with  Shakespeare." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

"  O  THE  flummery  of  a  birthplace  ! "  was  the 
ejaculation  in  which  Keats  indulged  apropos  of 
the  disappointment  he  felt  in  visiting  the  cot- 
tage in  which  Burns  was  born.  No  pilgrim  to 
his  own  natal  shrine  is  likely  to  repeat  the  phrase, 
for  of  the  birthplace  of  John  Keats  no  stone  is 
left  upon  another. 

Perhaps  it  is  well  that  it  should  be  so.  Than 
the  sombre  neighbourhood  of  Finsbury  Pave- 
ment, London,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a 
birthplace  more  incongruous  with  the  life-story 
of  a  poet  so  wedded  to  romantic  beauty  as  Keats. 
Not  that  there  is  much  in  common  with  the  dis- 
trict as  it  is  to-day  and  as  it  was  when  the  poet 
was  born  on  the  31st  October,  1795 ;  but  how- 
ever pleasant  the  neighbourhood  might  have  been 

213 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

a  century  or  more  ago,  it  would  be  its  aspect 
to-day  which  would  oppress  the  pilgrim.  There 
need  be  no  regrets,  then,  that  the  Swan-and- 
Hoop  livery-stable  has  been  swept  away,  nor 
that  the  house  in  Craven  Street,  City  Road,  to 
which  the  Keats  family  removed  a  few  years 
after  John's  birth,  has  also  vanished. 

Notwithstanding  much  assiduous  research, 
little  is  known  concerning  Thomas  Keats,  the 
father  of  the  poet.  He  came  from  the  west  of 
England,  but  whether  Devon  or  Cornwall  was 
his  native  county  is  uncertain.  One  of  his  son's 
friends  describes  him  as  a  "  native  of  Devon," 
but  his  daughter  remembered  hearing  him  say 
that  he  came  from  Land's  End.  The  presence 
of  Thomas  Keats  at  the  Finsbury  livery-stable 
is  accounted  for  by  his  holding  the  position  of 
head  ostler,  and  that  he  was  no  ordinary  head 
ostler  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the  proprietor, 
Mr.  John  Jennings,  made  no  opposition  to  his 
marriage  with  his  daughter,  Frances.  His  famous 
son  appears  to  have  reproduced  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, making  it  certain  that  we  may  imagine 
Thomas  Keats  as  of  small  stature  but  of  viva- 
cious expression  ;  while  regarding  his  mental 
equipment  Charles  Cowden  Clarke,  who  was 
schoolmate  with  the  poet,  testifies  that  Thomas 

214 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Keats  was  "  of  so  remarkably  fine  a  common 
sense  and  native  respectability  that  I  perfectly 
remember  the  warm  terms  in  which  his  de- 
meanour used  to  be  canvassed  by  my  parents 
after  he  had  been  to  visit  his  boys." 

It  was  not  the  least  of  the  many  misfortunes 
of  Keats  that  he  was  deprived  so  early  in  life  of 
so  estimable  a  father.  No  doubt  the  seeds  of 
consumption,  to  which  he  fell  an  untimely  vic- 
tim, were  fatally  rooted  in  his  constitution  from 
an  early  year,  but  it  is  impossible  to  resist  the 
conclusion  that  monetary  anxieties  contributed 
not  a  little  to  his  early  death.  Nor  is  it  possible 
to  overlook  the  adverse  influence  upon  one  of 
such  delicate  health  of  the  acrimonious  disputes 
which  the  obstinacy  of  the  family  guardian,  Mr, 
Abbey,  made  of  frequent  occurrence.  From 
both  these  disturbing  factors  Keats  would  have 
been  free  had  his  father  lived.  But  it  was  not  to 
be.  Ere  the  poet  had  reached  his  ninth  year  his 
father  was  dead.  How  he  met  his  death  is  re- 
lated in  the  following  paragraph,  which  appeared 
in  the  "  Times  "  of  Tuesday,  April  17,  1804  : 

"  On  Sunday  Mr.  Keats,  livery-stable  keeper 
in  Moorfields,  went  to  dine  at  Southgate ;  he 
returned  at  a  late  hour,  and  on  passing  down 

215 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  City-road,  his  horse  fell  with  him,  when  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  fracture  his  skull.  It  was 
about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  watch- 
man found  him,  he  was  at  that  time  alive,  but 
speechless ;  the  watchman  got  assistance,  and 
took  him  to  a  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  where 
he  died  about  8  o'clock." 

When  this  bereavement  overtook  Keats,  he 
was  at  Enfield,  a  pupil  in  the  school  of  the  Rev. 
John  Clarke.  It  is  many  years  now  since  that 
building  was  pulled  down  to  make  room  for  a 
railway  station,  but  happily  a  portion  of  the 
structure  still  survives,  and  is  now  illustrated 
for  the  first  time  in  connection  with  the  poet's 
career.  Of  the  history  of  this  house,  Cowden 
Clarke,  the  son  of  the  master  of  the  school,  nar- 
rates that  it  "  had  been  built  by  a  West  India 
merchant  in  the  latter  end  of  the  seventeenth 
or  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  was 
of  the  better  character  of  the  domestic  archi- 
tecture of  that  period,  the  whole  front  being 
of  the  purest  red  brick,  wrought  by  means  of 
moulds  into  rich  designs  of  flowers  and  pome- 
granates, with  heads  of  cherubim  over  niches  in 
the  centre  of  the  building."  Because  it  was  such 
an  excellent  example  of  the  early  Georgian 

216 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


FA£ADE  OF  KEATS'S  SCHOOLHOUSE 

domestic  architecture,  and  not  because  it  formed 
part  of  the  building  in  which  Keats  was  edu- 
cated, the  fa£ade  of  this  Enfield  schoolhouse 
escaped  the  usual  fate  of  demolished  bricks 
and  mortar,  and  may  now  be  seen  in  an  annex 

217 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

of  the  South  Kensington  Museum,  London, 
amid  a  motley  collection  of  ship  models  and 
bottled  monstrosities.  Perhaps  the  warning  may 
be  offered  that  it  will  be  idle  for  the  pilgrim 
to  question  the  museum  authorities  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  schoolhouse  of  John  Keats ; 
they  are,  or  were,  ignorant  that  such  a  treasure 
is  in  their  charge  ;  but  if  inquiry  be  made,  as  per 
the  catalogue,  for  the  "  specimen  of  old  English 
ornamental  brick  work  and  carving  from  an  old 
house  at  Enfield,  Middlesex,"  the  seeker  will  in 
due  time  be  rewarded  by  gazing  upon  at  least 
a  portion  of  the  building  which  is  our  earliest 
surviving  link  with  the  life  of  Keats.  It  will 
be  seen  how  accurate  and  justifiable  is  Cowden 
Clarke's  eulogistic  description  of  this  fragment  of 
his  old  home,  and  now  that  its  association  with 
the  school-days  of  the  poet  is  placed  on  record  it 
may  be  hoped  that  something  will  be  done  to 
make  that  fact  emphatic  for  the  information  of 
all  future  visitors  to  the  museum. 

Although  Cowden  Clarke  was  the  elder  of 
Keats  by  some  seven  years,  a  close  friendship 
between  the  two  appears  to  have  been  a  matter 
of  early  and  rapid  growth.  And  this  friendship 
had  momentous  consequences  in  two  directions. 
It  seems  probable  that  Keats  was  first  encour- 

218 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

aged  to  make  trial  of  his  poetic  powers  by  the 
son  of  his  schoolmaster,  and  in  any  case  that 
son  was  responsible  for  introducing  the  young 
poet  to  Leigh  Hunt,  and  thus  indirectly  opened 
the  doorway  through  which  Keats  made  his 
entrance  into  the  literary  coteries  of  those  days. 
Keats,  in  fact,  was  singularly  fortunate  in  his 
friends.  "  The  days  of  the  years  of  his  life," 
writes  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin  in  the  closing  words 
of  his  sympathetic  study,  "  were  few  and  evil, 
but  above  his  grave  the  double  aureole  of  poetry 
and  friendship  shines  immortally."  Much  of 
that  good  fortune  he  owed  to  his  own  character. 
All  who  knew  Keats  personally  unite  in  offering 
glowing  testimony  to  his  lovable  nature.  One 
testified,  "  A  sweeter  tempered  man  I  never 
knew ; "  another,  in  the  retrospect  of  twenty 
years,  spoke  of  him  as  one  "whose  genius  I 
did  not,  and  do  not,  more  fully  admire  than 
I  entirely  loved  the  man  ; "  while  a  third,  writing 
when  the  poet's  final  illness  was  hastening  to  its 
close,  said,  "  He  must  get  well  again,  if  but  for 
me  —  I  cannot  afford  to  lose  him."  Such  a  man 
deserved  the  best  of  friends,  and  in  the  case  of 
Keats  deserts  were,  for  once,  rewarded  as  they 
should  be. 

Perhaps,  however,  the  fortune  of  the  poet  in 
219 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

this  matter  was  not  wholly  without  blemish.  It 
is  allowable,  for  example,  to  doubt  whether  the 
friendship  of  Leigh  Hunt  was  entirely  beneficial 
for  Keats.  On  its  social  side  it  was,  no  doubt,  a 
valuable  asset,  but  the  literary  influence  of  Hunt 
must  be  charged  with  retarding  the  ripening 
of  the  younger  poet's  powers,  and  that  Keats 
was  generally  regarded  as  a  "  follower  "  of  the 
"  Examiner's  "  editor  undoubtedly  prejudiced  his 
chances  of  receiving  fair  play  in  the  literary  crit- 
icism of  the  time.  Had  Keats  never  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Leigh  Hunt,  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  he  would  never  have  been  chosen 
to  stand  in  the  pillory  for  the  amusement  of  the 
readers  of  "  Blackwood  "  and  the  "  Quarterly." 

Of  more  limited  value  still  was  the  friendship 
of  the  painter  Hay  don.  Keats  was  usually  so 
sane  in  his  judgments  of  men,  had  such  an  un- 
erring eye  for  their  defects  and  weaknesses,  that 
it  is  amazing  his  head  should  have  been  turned 
by  Haydon's  notice  and  speedy  offer  of  friend- 
ship. He  took  the  painter  at  his  own  estimate, 
and  readers  of  Haydon's  "Autobiography"  do  not 
need  to  be  informed  how  colossal  that  estimate 
was.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Keats  was  beside 
himself  with  joy  when  the  mighty  painter  prom- 
ised to  make  "  a  finished  chalk  sketch  "  of  his 

220 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


head  to  serve  as  a  frontispiece  for  "  Endymion," 
coupling  the  promise  with  the  characteristic 
assertion  that  he 
had  "  never  done 
the  thing  for  any 
human  being," 
and  that,  as  he  in- 
tended signing  it, 
the  drawing  "must 
have  considerable 
effect."  It  was 
also  characteristic 
that  the  promise 
was  not  kept. 
Still,  posterity 
owes  some  debt  to 
the  friendship  of 

Haydon,  for  it  was  he  who  executed  the  life- 
mask  of  Keats  which  his  sister  declared  to  be 
the  best  likeness  ever  made  of  her  brother. 

Notwithstanding  these  limitations,  it  still  holds 
good  that  Keats  was  singularly  fortunate  in  his 
friends  and  if  he  had  been  asked  which  of  those 
friends  he  valued  most,  his  reply  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  in  favour  of  John  Hamilton 
Reynolds.  Such  a  verdict  must  be  concurred  in 
by  every  student  of  the  poet,  and  it  should  be 

221 


HAYDON'S  LIFE-MASK  OF  KEATS 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


placed  to  the  credit  of  Leigh  Hunt  that  the  intro- 
duction was  effected  through  him.  This  friend- 
ship naturally  gave  Keats  admission  to  the  family 
circle  of  the  Reynoldses  in  their  home  in  Little 
Britain,  and  that  he  valued  the  privilege  is  mani- 
fest from  more  than  one  passage  in  his  letters. 
It  was  a  privilege  he  shared  in  common  with 
Charles  Lamb  and  Thomas  Hood,  and  many 

other  literary  aspi- 
rants of  the  early 
nineteenth  cen- 
tury. That  fact 
alone  might  be 
sufficient  to  stamp 
the  Reynoldses  as  a 
remarkable  family. 
But  other  proofs 
are  available. 

Only  a  bare  fact 
or  two  is  known 
about  the  father. 
He  was  mathe- 
matical and  head 
writing  master  in 
Christ's  Hospital, 

and  had,  according  to  the  testimony  of  one  of 
his  grandsons,  a  rooted  objection  to  having  his 

222 


JOHX  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

personal  appearance  delineated  in  any  way. 
Hence,  although  two  of  his  grandsons  were 
skilled  artists,  and  his  son-in-law,  Thomas  Hood, 


MR.   REYNOLDS,   SNR. 

made  many  efforts  to  persuade  him  to  give  some 
painter  a  sitting,  a  rough  pen  sketch  is  practi- 
cally the  only  likeness  that  exists.  As  will  be 
seen  from  the  reproduction,  it  depicts  him  as  a 
quaintly  garbed,  jolly  old  gentleman,  ready  for 

223 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


such  practical  jokes  as  we  know  he  was  willing 
to  share  in  when  visiting  Hood.  Perhaps  this 
view  of  his  character  is  scarcely  confirmed  by 
the  presentment  of  him  which  figures  in  a  sketch 
Hood  made  of  the  wedding  of  his  sister-in-law 

Mariane  Reynolds, 
but  one  hardly 
looks  for  likenesses 
in  caricatures  of 
that  kind. 

Charlotte  Rey- 
nolds, the  mother, 
had  aspirations  of 
a  literary  kind, 
though  we  get  no 
hint  of  that  fact 
from  the  letters  of 
Keats.  He  was 
dead,  however,  be- 
fore Mrs.  Reynolds 
courted  fame  with 
her  one  and  only  book,  the  title  of  which  ran : 
"  Mrs.  Leslie  and  Her  Grandchildren  :  A  Tale. 
By  Mrs.  Hamerton."  There  is  a  copy  of  this 
modest  little  volume  in  the  British  Museum, 
but  there  is  no  evidence  to  show  whether  it 
secured  much  or  little  favour  with  the  public. 

224 


MRS.   REYNOLDS,  SNR. 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Hood  appears  to  have  sent  a  copy  to  Charles 
Lamb,  and  his  opinion  of  the  effort  will  be  found 
elsewhere.  The  portrait  of  Mrs.  Reynolds  was 
painted  at  Hood's  house  at  Wanstead,  and  is  the 
only  counterfeit  in  existence  of  a  woman  who 
deserves  well  of  the  student  of  literature  for  the 
unfailing  hospitality  she  extended  to  so  many  of 
its  famous  sons. 

There  were  four  daughters  in  the  Reynolds 
family,  of  whom  one,  Jane,  as  hinted  above,  be- 
came the  wife  of  Thomas  Hood.  The  eldest, 
Mariane,  married  Mr.  Green,  and  had  for  her 
two  sons  the  gifted  artists  Charles  and  Towneley 
Green.  It  was  to  celebrate  her  wedding  that 
Hood  drew  the  water-colour  sketch  which  will 
be  found  in  another  part  of  this  volume.  In 
the  foreground  of  this  sketch  the  third  sister, 
Charlotte,  occupies  a  prominent  position,  with  a 
hooked  arm  outstretched  in  a  vain  endeavour 
—  such  was  Hood's  jest  —  to  emulate  her  sister 
in  catching  a  husband.  The  antipathy  of  Mr. 
Reynolds  senior  to  having  his  portrait  taken  in 
any  way  seems  to  have  been  shared  by  his  eldest 
daughter  Mariane,  for  she  would  never  give  a 
sitting  even  to  one  of  her  two  artist  sons.  Hence 
the  only  likeness  surviving  of  this  friend  of  Keats 
is  the  meagre  pen  and  ink  sketch  reproduced. 

15  225 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

With  the  father  and  mother  and  the  four 
sisters  Keats  enjoyed  much  friendly  intercourse, 
though  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  for  reasons 


MRS.  GREEN,  n4e  MARIANE  REYNOLDS 

which  it  is  not  necessary  to  recapitulate,  the  sis- 
ters lost  some  of  his  regard.  But  in  his  friend- 
ship for  their  brother,  John  Hamilton  Reynolds, 
there  was  no  rift  from  beginning  to  end.  Of  all 
his  literary  associates,  he  was  the  most  congenial 
spirit,  and  Lord  Houghton  rightly  insists  upon 
the  "  invaluable  worth  of  his  friendship."  On 

226 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

this  point  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin 
may  also  be  cited,  for  he  is  at  one  with  all  the 
biographers  of  Keats  in  affirming  Reynolds  to 
have  been  one  of  the  poet's  wisest  friends,  and 
points  out  that  he  "  by  judicious  advice  more 
than  once  saved  him  from  a  mistake." 

Although  nearly  a  year  younger  than  Keats, 
Reynolds  preceded  him  in  the  publication  of  a 
volume  of  verse  by  three  years,  and  had,  indeed, 
placed  no  fewer  than  four  books  to  his  credit  ere 
Keats  issued  his  first  volume.  Reynolds  was 
only  eighteen  when,  in  1814,  he  published  his 
first  work  "  Safie,  an  Eastern  Tale."  As  the 
poem  was  frankly  imitative  of  Byron,  and  in- 
scribed to  him,  it  was  natural  that  Reynolds 
should  forward  an  early  copy  to  that  poet.  Al- 
though he  was  accustomed  to  attentions  of  that 
kind,  Byron  took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  ac- 
knowledging the  book  and  its  dedication,  and  his 
letter  is  interesting,  not  only  for  its  opinion  of 
Reynolds  but  also  for  its  personal  note.  It  is 
dated  Feb.  20,  1814. 

"  SIR,  —  My  absence  from  London  till  within 
these  last  few  days  and  business  since  have 
hitherto  prevented  my  acknowledgment  of  the 
volume  I  have  lately  received  and  the  inscrip- 

227 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

tion  it  contains,  for  both  of  which  I  beg  leave  to 
return  you  my  thanks  and  best  wishes  for  the 
success  of  your  book  and  its  author.  The  poem 
itself  as  the  work  of  a  young  man  is  highly 
creditable  to  your  talents,  and  promises  better 
for  future  efforts  than  any  which  I  can  now 
recollect.  Whether  you  intend  to  pursue  your 
poetical  career  I  do  not  know  and  can  have  no 
right  to  enquire,  but  in  whatever  channel  your 
abilities  are  directed,  I  think  it  will  be  your  own 
fault  if  they  do  not  eventually  lead  to  distinc- 
tion. Happiness  must  of  course  depend  upon 
conduct,  but  even  fame  itself  would  be  but 
poor  compensation  for  self-reproach.  You  will 
excuse  me  for  talking  to  a  man  perhaps  not 
many  years  my  junior  with  these  grave  airs  of 
seniority,  but  though  I  cannot  claim  much  ad- 
vantage in  that  respect  it  was  my  lot  to  be 
thrown  very  early  upon  the  world,  to  mix  a 
good  deal  in  it  in  more  climates  than  one,  and 
to  purchase  experience  which  would  probably 
have  been  of  greater  service  to  any  one  than 
myself.  But  my  business  with  you  is  in  your 
capacity  of  author,  and  to  that  I  will  confine 
myself. 

"  The  first  thing  a  young  writer  must  expect 
and  yet  can  least  of  all  suffer  is  criticism.     I  did 

228 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

not  bear  it.  A  few  years  and  many  changes 
have  since  passed  over  my  head,  and  my  reflec- 
tions on  that  subject  are  attended  with  regret.  I 
find  on  dispassionate  comparison  my  own  re- 
venge was  more  than  the  provocation  warranted. 
It  is  true  I  was  young ;  that  might  be  an  excuse 
to  those  I  attacked,  but  to  me  it  is  none.  The 
best  reply  to  all  objections  is  to  write  better,  and 
if  your  enemies  will  not  then  do  you  justice  the 
world  will.  On  the  other  hand,  you  should  not 
be  discouraged  ;  to  be  opposed  is  not  to  be  van- 
quished, though  a  timid  mind  is  apt  to  mistake 
every  scratch  for  a  mortal  wound.  There  is  a 
saying  of  Dr.  Johnson's  which  it  is  well  to  re1 
member  that  '  No  man  was  ever  written  down 
except  by  himself.' 

"  I  sincerely  hope  that  you  will  meet  with  as 
few  obstacles  as  yourself  can  desire,  but  if  you 
should  you  will  find  that  they  are  to  be  stepped 
over ;  to  kick  them  down  is  the  first  resolve  of  a 
young  and  fiery  spirit,  a  pleasant  thing  enough 
at  the  time,  but  not  so  afterwards.  On  this 
point  I  speak  of  a  man's  own  reflections  after- 
wards ;  what  others  think  or  say  is  a  secondary 
consideration,  at  least  it  has  been  with  me,  but 
will  not  answer  as  a  general  maxim.  He  who 
would  make  his  way  in  the  world  must  let  the 

229 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

world  believe  that  it  made  it  for  him,  and 
accommodate  himself  to  the  minutest  of  its 
regulations. 

"  I  beg  leave  once  more  to  thank  you  for  your 
pleasing  present,  and  have  the  honour  to  be 

"  Your  obliged  and  very  obedient  servant, 

"  BYRON." 

Although  Keats  and  Reynolds  were  not  blind 
to  the  weaknesses  of  Wordsworth,  they  had  — 
which  is  more  to  their  credit  considering  the 
general  critical  attitude  of  their  day  towards  the 
Lake  poet  —  a  keen  appreciation  of  the  undying 
qualities  of  his  best  work.  In  one  of  his  earliest 
sonnets  Keats  gave  worthy  and  unstinted  homage 
to  the  poet 

"  Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake, 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing  ;" 

and  when  Haydon  proposed  to  send  a  copy  of 
the  sonnet  to  Wordsworth  the  idea  put  the 
young  poet  "  out  of  breath."  You  know,  he 
added,  "  with  what  reverence  I  would  send  my 
well- wishes  to  him."  As  this  homage  was  shared 
by  Reynolds,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  should 
have  sent  a  copy  of  his  fourth  book,  "  The  Naiad  : 
a  Tale,"  published  in  1816,  to  Rydal  Mount. 

230 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Wordsworth's  reply,  not  before  published,  is  as 
characteristic  as  the  acknowledgment  Byron 
made  of  the  "  Safie  "  volume.  In  their  several 


MRS.  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

ways,  these  two  epistles  are  not  unworthy  addi- 
tions to  the  Letters  to  Young  Authors  which  are 
so  plentiful  in  English  literary  correspondence  ; 
and  it  is  noteworthy  that  Wordsworth  as  well  as 

231 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Byron  is  at  pains  to  prepare  Reynolds  for  the 
inevitable  depressing  effect  of  criticism.  Here  is 
Wordsworth's  letter,  dated  from  Rydal  Mount, 
Nov.  28,  1816 : 

*'  MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  A  few  days  ago  I  received 
a  parcel  through  the  hands  of  Messrs.  Longman 
containing  your  poem  '  The  Naiad,  etc.,'  and  a 
letter,  accompanying  it,  for  both  which  marks  of 
your  attention  you  will  accept  my  cordial  thanks. 
Your  poem  is  composed  writh  elegance  and  in  a 
style  that  accords  with  the  subject,  but  my 
opinion  on  this  point  might  have  been  of  more 
value  if  I  had  seen  the  Scottish  ballad  on  which 
your  work  is  founded.  You  do  me  the  honour  of 
asking  me  to  find  fault  in  order  that  you  may 
profit  by  my  remarks.  1  remember  when  I  was 
young  in  the  practice  of  writing  praise  was  pro- 
digiously acceptable  to  me  and  censure  most 
distasteful,  nay,  even  painful.  For  the  credit  of 
our  nature  I  would  fain  persuade  myself  to  this 
day  that  the  extreme  labour  and  tardiness  with 
which  my  compositions  were  brought  forth  had 
no  inconsiderable  influence  for  exciting  both 
those  sensations.  Presuming,  however,  that  you 
have  more  philosophy  than  I  was  master  of  at 
that  time,  I  will  not  scruple  to  say  that  your 

232 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

poem  would  have  told  more  upon  me,  if  it  had 
been  shorter.  How  unceremoniously  not  to  say 
ungraciously  do  I  strike  home  1  But  I  am  justi- 
fied to  my  own  mind  from  a  persuasion  that  it 
was  better  to  put  the  objection  in  this  abrupt 
way,  than  to  introduce  it  by  an  accompanying 
compliment  which,  however  well  merited,  would 
have  stood  in  the  way  of  the  effect  which  I  aim 
at  —  your  reformation.  Your  fancy  is  too  luxu- 
riant, and  riots  too  much  upon  its  own  creations. 
Can  you  endure  to  be  told  by  one  whom  you  are 
so  kind  as  to  say  you  respect  that  in  his  judg- 
ment your  poem  would  be  better  without  the 
first  57  lines  (not  condemned  for  their  own 
sakes),  and  without  the  last  146,  which  never- 
theless have  in  themselves  much  to  recommend 
them.  The  basis  is  too  narrow  for  the  super- 
structure, and  to  me  it  would  have  been  more 
striking  barely  to  have  hinted  at  the  deserted 
Fair  One  and  to  have  left  it  to  the  imagination 
of  the  reader  to  dispose  of  her  as  he  liked.  Her 
fate  dwelt  upon  at  such  length  requires  of  the 
reader  a  sympathy  which  cannot  be  furnished 
without  taking  the  Nymph  from  the  unfathom- 
able abyss  of  the  cerulean  waters  and  beginning 
afresh  upon  terra  firma.  I  may  be  wrong  but 
I  speak  as  I  felt,  and  the  most  profitable  criticism 

233 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

is  the  record  of  sensations,  provided  the  person 
affected  be  under  no  partial  influence. 

"  I  am  gratified  by  your  favourable  opinion  of 
my  labours.  As  a  slight  return  for  your  oblig- 
ing attentions  will  you  accept  of  a  copy  of  my 
*  Thanksgiving  Ode '  and  '  Letter  upon  Bacon,' 
which  will  be  put  into  your  hands  if  you  will 
take  the  trouble  of  presenting  the  underwritten 
order  to  Messrs.  Longman.  When  you  call 
there,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  mention  that  I 
have  received  complaints  from  Edinburgh  that 
these  two  publications  have  not  arrived  there  as 
was  expected,  agreeable  to  the  directions  which  I 
had  given. 

"  Pray  beg  of  Messrs.  Longman  that  as  many 
copies  of  each  as  I  requested  may  be  sent 
forthwith. 

"  I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  great  respect, 
"  Your  obliged  servant, 

"  W.  WORDSWORTH." 

Although  Wordsworth's  letter  can  hardly  have 
been  regarded  by  Reynolds  as  so  encouraging  as 
Byron's,  yet,  allowing  for  the  difference  in  the 
men,  he  would  have  been  justified  in  deriving 
some  satisfaction  from  its  contents.  At  any 
rate,  the  fact  that  he  did  not  post  a  copy  of  his 

234 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

next  poem  to  Rydal  Mount  must  not  be  hastily 
interpreted  as  a  proof  that  he  was  annoyed  with 
Wordsworth  for  his  plain  speaking.  There  was 
another,  and  far  more  understandable,  reason  why 
he  did  not  venture  to  trouble  Wordsworth  again. 
That  reason  opens  up  an  interesting,  but  little 
known,  by-path  in  English  literary  history,  and 
explains  how  it  came  to  pass  that  there  are  three 
poems  bearing  the  title  of  "  Peter  Bell." 

Reynolds,  in  common  with  Keats  and  all  the 
literary  members  of  their  "  set,"  opposed  to  the 
last  Wordsworth's  pet  theory  that  the  humblest 
incidents  of  lowly  life  described  in  the  most 
homely  way  were  "  within  the  compass  of  poetic 
probability  ;  "  even  more  were  they  offended  with 
Wordsworth  for  his  perverse  persistence  in  em- 
ploying vulgar  or  ridiculous  names  for  the  titles  of 
his  poems  or  for  the  cognomens  of  the  characters 
in  those  poems.  Wordsworth  was  perfectly  aware 
of  this  feeling  among  his  most  ardent  admirers 
and  advocates,  but,  with  characteristic  confidence 
in  his  own  j  udgment,  he  kept  calmly  on  his  way, 
perpetrating  title  after  title  and  name  after  name 
of  such  a  nature  as  caused  his  friends  fresh  grief 
and  gave  his  foes  renewed  justification  for  their 
scoffing.  Early  in  the  year  1819,  an  announce- 
ment was  made  in  the  papers  to  the  effect  that  a 

235 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

new  poem  by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  entitled  "  Peter 
Bell,"  would  shortly  be  published.  This  was  the 
last  straw  for  Reynolds,  whose  bright  wit  saw 
in  the  bare  announcement  an  opportunity  of 
showing  Wordsworth  by  means  of  parody  how 
open  to  ridicule  his  titles  were.  As  will  be  seen 
in  the  sequel,  the  idea  was  as  rapidly  executed 
as  it  was  conceived,  and  consequently  the  "  Peter 
Bell "  of  Reynolds  was  published  before  the 
"Peter  Bell"  of  Wordsworth.  The  situation 
must  have  been  somewhat  perplexing  to  the 
book-buyer  of  1819,  though  as  the  title-page  of 
the  spurious  "  Peter  Bell "  did  not  give  any 
author's  name,  and  bore  the  motto,  "  I  do  affirm 
I  am  the  REAL  SIMON  PURE,"  the  knowing  ones 
may  have  guessed  the  fraud. 

Not  so,  however,  Coleridge.  Isolated,  in  his 
Highgate  retreat,  from  the  literary  society  of 
the  day,  he  had  to  rely  largely  upon  his  news- 
paper for  news  of  the  world  of  books,  and 
although  the  announcement  of  Wordsworth's 
forthcoming  poem  seems  to  have  escaped  him,  the 
intimation  of  Reynolds's  "  Peter  Bell "  did  not. 
That  intimation  caused  him  many  moments  of 
uneasiness,  as  the  ensuing  correspondence,  hith- 
erto unpublished,  will  show.  Shortly  after  "  Peter 
Bell "  had  been  issued  from  the  press,  on  the  16th 

236 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

of  April,  1819,  to  be  explicit,  the  publishers  of 
Reynolds's  parody,  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey  — 
who  were  also  the  generous  publishers  and  unfail- 
ing friends  of  Keats — were  doubtless  considerably 
astonished  to  receive  the  following  letter  from 
Coleridge,  written  on  that  day  from  Highgate  : 

"DEAR  SIRS, —  I  hope,  nay  I  feel  confident, 
that  you  will  interpret  this  note  in  its  real  sense, 
namely,  as  a  proof  of  the  esteem  and  respect 
which  I  entertain  towards  you  both.  Looking 
in  the  '  Times '  this  morning  I  was  startled  by  an 
advertisement  of  '  Peter  Bell :  a  Lyrical  Ballad,' 
with  a  very  significant  motto  from  one  of  our 
comedies  of  Charles  II's  reign,  tho'  what  it  sig- 
nifies I  wish  to  ascertain.  *  Peter  Bell '  is  a  poem 
of  Mr.  Wordsworth's,  and  I  have  not  heard  that 
it  has  been  published  by  him.  If  it  have,  and 
with  his  name  (1  have  reason  to  believe  that 
he  never  publishes  anonymously),  and  this  now 
advertised  be  a  ridicule  upon  it,  I  have  nothing 
to  say.  But  if  it  have  not,  I  have  ventured  to 
pledge  myself  for  you  that  you  would  not  wit- 
tingly give  the  high  respectability  of  your  names 
to  an  attack  upon  a  Manuscript  work,  which  no 
man  could  assail  but  by  a  base  breach  of  trust. 
Merciful  Heavens  !  no  one  could  dare  read  a  copy 

237 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

of  verses  at  his  own  fireside,  if  such  a  practice 
were  endured  by  honest  men  !  And  that  the 
poem  itself  should  have  been  published  by  you, 
unless  with  Mr.  Wordsworth's  consent,  is  morally 
impossible. 

"  I  just  remember  the  first  lines  of  Mr.  W.'s 
*  Peter  Bell': 

'  There  's  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
There  's  something  in  a  huge  balloon  ; 
But  through  the  air  I  '11  never  float 
Until  I  get  a  little  boat, 
In  shape  just  like  the  crescent  moon. 

And  I  have  got  a  little  boat.'  etc. 

Had  it  been  in  my  power  I  should  have  gone 
to  town,  to  see  what  this  '  Peter  Bell '  (the  true 
Simon  Pure)  is,  and  to  have  rectified  any  mis- 
take I  may  have  made  (though  I  can  imagine  no 
other  but  that  the  poem  may  have  been  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I  have  not  heard 
of  it),  without  mention  of  my  preceding  appre- 
hensions. But  as  I  could  not  do  this,  and  felt 
really  uneasy,  I  resolved  to  throw  myself  on  your 
good  opinion  of  the  sincerity  with  which  I  sub- 
scribe myself,  dear  Sirs, 

"  Yours  most  respectfully, 

"  S.  T.  COLERIDGE." 

238 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Coleridge  had  no  cause  to  complain  of  his 
reply.  His  letter  was  probably  sent  by  hand, 
for  the  answer  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey  re- 
turned bears  the  same  date  as  Coleridge's  epistle 
of  enquiry,  and  it  deserves  to  be  cited  in  full,  not 
only  because  it  gives  the  genesis  of  Reynolds1  s 
parody,  but  also  because  it  faithfully  reflects  the 
real  distress  which  Wordsworth's  insistence  on 
his  theory  caused  his  most  sincere  admirers.  The 
explanatory  letter  was  in  these  terms : 

"  DEAR  SIR,  —  We  enclose  the  little  work 
which  has  occasioned  you  so  much  perplexity, 
and  we  trust  that  when  you  have  looked  it  over 
we  shall  still  retain  your  good  opinion. 

"  It  was  written  by  a  sincere  admirer  of  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  poetry,  by  a  person  who  has  been 
his  advocate  in  every  place  where  he  found  op- 
portunity of  expressing  an  opinion  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  we  really  think  that  when  the  original 
poem  is  published  he  will  feel  all  the  intense 
regard  for  the  beauties  which  distinguishes  the 
true  lover  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  poetry.  The 
immediate  cause  of  his  writing  this  burlesque 
imitation  of  the  '  Idiot  Boy '  was  the  announce- 
ment of  a  new  poem  with  so  untimely  a  title  as 
that  of  <  Peter  Bell.'  He  thought  that  all  Mr. 

239 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Wordsworth's  excellencies  might  be  displayed  in 
some  work  which  should  be  free  from  those  ridic- 
ulous associations  which  vulgar  names  give  rise 
to,  and  as  a  Friend  he  felt  vexed  that  unneces- 
sary obstacles  were  thus  again  thrown  in  the  way 
of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  popularity. 

"  You  do  not  know  the  author,  nor  are  we 
at  liberty  to  mention  his  name.  There  was  no 
malice  prepense  in  the  undertaking,  we  can  as- 
sure you,  for  we  happen  to  know  that  it  was 
written  in  five  hours  after  he  first  thought  of 
such  a  thing,  and  it  was  printed  in  as  many 
more.  He  never  heard  a  line  of  the  original 
poem,  nor  did  he  know  that  it  was  in  existence 
till  he  saw  the  name  in  the  advertisement. 

"  We  are  placed  in  a  situation  which  enables 
us  to  see  the  effect  of  those  peculiarities  which 
this  writer  wishes  Mr.  Wordsworth  to  renounce, 
and  we  must  say  that  they  grieve  his  friends, 
gladden  his  adversaries,  and  are  the  chief,  if  not 
the  only,  impediments  to  the  favourable  reception 
of  his  poems  among  all  classes  of  readers." 

Coleridge's  reply  to  this  admirable  letter  from 
Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey  is  not  dated,  but  he 
seems  to  have  sent  it  as  speedily  as  an  attack 
of  influenza  would  allow  him.  There  are  many 

240 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

points  of  interest  in  his  letter,  not  the  least  being 
the  expression  of  his  opinion  on  the  prose  parts 
of  Reynolds's  squib. 

"DEAR  SIRS,  —  The  influenza,  which  is  at 
present  going  about,  has  honoured  me  with  its 
particular  attention,  in  the  form  of  fever,  weight 
in  my  limbs,  and  this  from  the  day  I  received 
your  letter  and  the  '  True  Simon  Pure. '  Tho'  I 
write  with  difficulty,  1  will  not  longer  delay  to 
assure  you  that  I  would  not  have  subjected 
myself  to  the  possible  charge  of  impertinent 
interference,  had  I  then  been  aware  that  Mr. 
Wordsworth's  poem  had  been  announced  pub- 
licly, for  it  is  now  many  years  since  I  have  been 
in  correspondence  with  him  by  letters.  It  is, 
according  to  my  principles,  ALL  FAIR.  The 
satirist  pretends  to  know  nothing  of  the  author 
but  what  he  has  drawn  from  his  printed  works, 
and  implies  nothing  against  his  person  and  char- 
acter. All  else  is  matter  of  taste.  I  laughed 
heartily  at  all  the  prose,  notes  included,  and  am 
confident  should  have  done  so  and  yet  more 
heartily  had  I  been  myself  the  barb  of  the  joke. 
The  writer,  however,  ought  (as  a  man,  I  mean) 
to  recollect  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  for  full  16 
years  had  been  assailed,  weekly,  monthly,  and 

16  241 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

quarterly,  with  every  species  of  wanton  detrac- 
tion and  contempt ;  that  my  '  Literary  life '  was 
the  first  critique  which,  acknowledging  and  ex- 
plaining his  faults  (as  a  poet],  weighed  them 
fairly  against  his  merits  (and  is  there  a  poet  now 
alive  who  will  pretend  to  believe  himself  equal 
in  genius  to  Wordsworth  ?) ;  that  during  all  these 
years  Mr.  Wordsworth  made  no  answer,  displayed 
no  resentment ;  and,  lastly,  that  from  Cicero 
to  Luther,  Giordano  Bruno,  Milton,  Dryden, 
Wolfe,  John  Brown,  Hunter,  etc.,  etc.,  I  know 
but  one  instance  (that  of  Benedict  Spinoza) 
of  a  man  of  great  genius  and  original  mind 
who  on  those  very  accounts  had  been  abused, 
misunderstood,  decried  and  (as  far  as  the  several 
ages  permitted)  persecuted,  who  has  not  been 
worried  at  last  with  a  semblance  of  Egotism. 
The  verdict  of  Justice  is  ever  the  same,  as  to 
the  quantum  of  credit  due  to  a  man  compara- 
tively —  if  the  whole  or  perhaps  more  than  the 
whole  is  given  to  a  man  by  his  contemporaries 
generally  what  wonder  if  he  feels  little  temp- 
tation to  claim  any  in  his  own  name  ? 

"As  to  the  poem  of  the  satirist,  it  seems  to 
me  like  many  of  its  predecessors  of  the  same 
sort.  A.  we  are  to  suppose  writes  like  a  simple- 
ton ;  and  B.  writes  tenfold  more  simpletonish  — 

242 


IN    OLD   ENGLAND 

ergo  B.'s  wilful  idiocy  is  a  witty  satire  on  A.'s 
childishness !  At  the  best  this  is  but  mimicry, 
buffoonery,  not  satire.  When  a  man  can  imitate 
even  stupidly  the  blunders  of  a  Dogberry  so  as 
to  render  them,  as  Shakespeare  does,  the  vehicles 
of  the  most  exquisite  sense  —  this  is  indeed  wit ! 
But  be  the  verses  what  they  may,  they  are  all 
mostly  fair,  and  the  preface  and  notes  are  very 
droll  and  clever." 

A  word  or  two  may  be  devoted  to  rounding 
off  the  history  of  the  "  Peter  Bell "  poems. 
Wordsworth,  it  should  be  noted,  did  not  regard 
the  parody  from  the  standpoint  of  Coleridge ; 
his  lack  of  humour  prevented  that ;  and  so  far 
from  laughing  heartily  over  any  part  of  the 
book,  it  gave  him  great  offence.  Keats  wrote 
a  characteristic  review  of  Reynolds's  effort,  quo- 
ting a  few  verses  and  some  of  the  prose  notes, 
and  it  was  this  review  which  aroused  Shelley's 
interest  in  the  matter,  and  led  to  the  writing  of 
his  "  Peter  Bell  the  Third."  That  title  must 
have  puzzled  many  readers  who  were  ignorant 
of  Reynolds's  "Peter  Bell,"  the  "ante-natal 
Peter,"  as  Shelley  christened  it. 

When  the  letters  from  Byron,  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge,  given  above,  are  considered  in 

243 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

their  cumulative  judgment  of  Reynolds's  literary 
gifts ;  when  it  is  recalled  that  Byron  thought  his 
"  Peter  Bell "  was  the  work  of  Moore  ;  when  we 
remember  that  his  collaboration  with  Thomas 
Hood  in  the  "  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great 
People"  resulted  in  a  volume  which  Coleridge 
was  certain  had  been  written  by  Lamb ;  and 
when  we  are  reminded  that  in  a  later  work, 
"  The  Garden  of  Florence,"  Reynolds  showed  a 
marked  ripening  of  his  literary  gifts,  we  are 
tempted  to  wonder  what  mischance  of  fate  has 
prevented  him  from  surviving  in  English  liter- 
ature save  as  the  friend  of  Keats.  After  all,  we 
must  not  judge  too  harshly  the  contemporaneous 
reception  of  Keats's  first  two  volumes.  Bring- 
ing to  his  early  work  the  prejudice  in  his  favour 
which  his  later  and  riper  verse  has  created,  we 
cannot  enter  fully  into  the  feelings  of  those  who 
had  only  the  "Poems"  of  1817  and  "Endym- 
ion"  before  them.  It  may  seem  rash  to  aver 
that  but  for  the  "  Lamia  "  volume  Keats's  name 
would  indeed  have  been  written  in  water,  and 
yet  that  is  a  conclusion  which  can  hardly  be 
avoided  by  any  one  who  compares  the  "  Poems  " 
and  "  Endymion "  with  the  best  work  of  Rey- 
nolds. It  is  true  that  even  the  earliest  work  of 
Keats  has  here  and  there  streaks  of  the  fine  ore 

244 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

of  his  own  peculiar  genius,  but  in  its  total  effect 
it  hardly  reaches  a  much  higher  level  than  Rey- 
nolds attained.  But  to  discuss  this  question 
would  be  too  lengthy  a  task.  Reynolds  was  one 
of  the  many  —  perhaps  the  best  equipped  of  the 
many  —  of  those  friends  of  Keats  who  seemed  to 
have  received  the  call  of  the  Muse.  Yet  only 
one  was  chosen.  And  Reynolds  would  not  have 
had  it  otherwise.  "I,"  wrote  Keats  to  Reynolds, 
"  have  been  getting  more  and  more  close  to  you, 
every  day,  since  I  knew  you ; "  to  Jane  Rey- 
nolds he  wrote  that  henceforth  he  should  con- 
sider her  brother  John  his  own  brother  also  ;  and 
in  the  last  letter  he  penned,  when  the  death 
dews  were  gathering  on  his  brow  in  far-off 
Rome,  he  turned  in  tender  thought  to  the  friend 
he  loved  and  told  how  he  could  not  write  to  him 
because  it  was  not  possible  to  send  a  good 
account  of  his  health.  Reynolds  did  not  fail  of 
equal  affection.  "  I  set  my  heart,"  he  wrote  to 
Keats,  "on  having  you  high,  as  you  ought  to  be. 
Do  you  get  Fame,  and  I  shall  have  it  in  being 
your  affectionate  and  steady  friend."  Both  those 
desires  have  been  fulfilled.  So  long  as  the 
pathetic  story  of  John  Keats  is  told  in  English 
literature,  fame  will  not  be  wanting  for  his 
friend  John  Hamilton  Reynolds. 

245 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Tempted  by  the  interest  attaching  to  the 
above-quoted  letters  from  Byron,  Wordsworth, 
and  Coleridge,  and  by  the  opportunity  they 
afforded  of  doing  some  justice  to  the  memory  of 
Keats's  best  and  wisest  friend,  other  friends  of  the 
poet  have  been  lost  sight  of  for  the  time.  Before 


RECORD  IN  THE  PUPIL'S  ENTRY  BOOK  OF  GUY'S  HOSPITAL,   LONDON 

returning  to  them,  however,  something  may  be 
attempted  towards  setting  at  rest  several  points 
relating  to  the  career  of  Keats  as  a  medical 
student. 

When  the  poet  had  reached  his  fifteenth  year, 
his  self-willed  guardian,  Mr.  Richard  Abbey, 
decided  that  he  should  be  bound  apprentice 
to  Mr.  Thomas  Hammond,  an  apothecary  at 
Edmonton,  and  because  Keats  left  Mr.  Ham- 

246 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

mond  before  the  natural  term  of  his  apprentice- 
ship it  has  always  been  concluded  that  some 
serious  estrangement  arose  between  the  two. 
This  conclusion  appears  to  have  been  based 
solely  on  an  expression  used  by  Keats  when, 
wishing  to  illustrate  the  changes  which  take 
place  in  the  tissues  of  the  human  body,  he  said, 


RECORD  IN  THE  PUPILS'  ENTRY  BOOK  OF  GUY'S  HOSPITAL,   LONDON 

"  Seven  years  ago  it  was  not  this  hand  which 
clenched  itself  at  Hammond."  This  appears  to 
be  but  a  slight  foundation  upon  which  to  found  a 
theory  of  a  quarrel,  especially  when  documentary 
records  of  the  poet's  student  days  are  taken  into 
account.  Those  records  also  seem  to  throw  some 
light  on  the  date  at  which  Keats  entered  upon  a 
further  study  of  the  medical  profession  at  Guy's 
Hospital,  London.  He  is  supposed  to  have  gone 
thither  in  the  fall  of  1814,  whereas  the  records  in 

247 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

question  reveal  that  it  was  not  until  the  fall  of  the 
following  year.  An  examination  of  the  records 
at  Guy's  shows  that  the  authorities  in  those  days 
were  in  the  habit  of  keeping  duplicate  books  of 
the  entries  of  pupils,  the  one  being  in  alphabeti- 
cal and  the  other  in  chronological  order.  Now 
both  these  Pupils'  Entry  Books  agree,  as  will  be 
seen  from  the  reproductions,  in  giving  the  name 
of  John  Keats  under  the  date  of  October  1st, 
1815,  and  each  shows  that  the  office  fee  paid 
was  £1.  2.  0.  That  Keats  did  not  begin  his 
hospital  attendance  prior  to  October  1st,  1815,  is 
also  proved  by  an  examination  of  the  records  of 
the  Apothecaries'  Hall,  London,  an  extract  from 
which  is  reproduced  in  these  pages  for  the  first 
time.  This  excerpt  illustrates  several  points.  It 
shows,  for  one  thing,  that  Keats  passed  his  ex- 
amination with  credit,  —  "  Examined  by  Mr. 
Brande  and  approved"  is  the  endorsement, — 
also  that  up  to  that  time  he  had  only  had  a  hos- 
pital attendance  of  six  months  at  Guy's  and  St. 
Thomas's.  As  the  date  of  the  certificate  is  July 
25th,  1816,  it  proves  conclusively  that  Keats  did 
not  begin  his  hospital  career  in  1814  as  Mr.  Sid- 
ney Colvin  asserts.  Again,  in  addition  to  re- 
cording the  actual  courses  attended  by  Keats, 
the  certificate  also  bears  that  the  young  student 

248 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

came  to  his  examination  armed  with  a  testimo- 
nial from  Mr.  Hammond,  and  that  fact  should 
do  something  towards  destroying  the  "  quarrel " 
theory.  It  only  remains  to  be  added  that  the 
reference  in  one  of  the  Guy's  records  to  a  further 


<£-{J>2 CANDIDATE  for 


LECTURES. 

Coussts  on  ANATOMY  and  PHYSIOLOGY. 
THEORY 'and  PRACTICE  of  MEDI 
CHEMISTRY. 
/ MATEBIA  MEDIC*. 


HOSPITAL  ATTENDANCE. 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  REGISTER  OF  APOTHECARIES'  HALL,  LONDON 

twelve-months  course  by  Keats  under  a  "  Mr.  L." 
is  explained  by  the  fact  that  on  March  3d,  1816, 
he  was  appointed  a  "  dresser  of  surgeons  "  under 
Mr.  Lucas.  On  that  occasion  he  paid  a  fee  of 
£25.  4.  0,  of  which  £6.  6.  0  was  returned,  proba- 
bly owing  to  his  discovery  that  he  was  unfit  for 

249 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  profession  and  his  consequent  resolve  to  seek 
his  life  occupation  in  some  other  sphere. 

Owing  to  some  of  his  fellow-students  having 
given  their  reminiscences  to  the  world,  it  is  some- 
times imagined  that  Keats  did  not  follow  his 
medical  tuition  with  any  great  zest.  One  such 
has  recorded  that  "  in  the  lecture-room  he 
seemed  to  sit  apart,  and  to  be  absorbed  in  some- 
thing else,  as  if  the  subject  suggested  thoughts  to 
him  which  were  not  practically  connected  with 
it.  He  was  often  in  the  subject,  and  out  of  it, 
in  a  dreamy  way ; "  and  another,  in  a  somewhat 
similar  strain,  asserted  "  even  in  the  lecture- 
room  of  St.  Thomas's,  I  have  seen  Keats  in  a 
deep  poetic  dream :  his  mind  was  on  Parnassus 
with  the  muses."  It  is  more  than  probable  that 
these  recollections  were  coloured  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  what  Keats  eventually  became.  At  any 
rate,  one  interesting  souvenir  of  his  student  days 
is  preserved  among  the  precious  relics  belonging 
to  Sir  Charles  W.  Dilke  in  the  form  of  a  note- 
book, and  these  closely-written  pages  are  witness 
to  anything  save  a  wandering  mind.  Besides, 
did  he  not,  in  those  terrible  last  days  at  Rome, 
harrow  the  spirit  of  the  faithful  Severn  with  a 
minute  diagnosis  of  his  own  malady,  showing 
thereby  that  it  was  not  with  inattentive  mind  he 

250 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

had  listened  to  the  lectures  of  his  professors  some 
six  years  before  ? 

Although  John  Taylor  stood  to  Keats  in  the 
relation  of  his  publisher,  he  was  in  addition  one 


.*•£«»*•    "&"?"••   - 
*f*&*.J*yfaA4t^,p    ^C<u.i 


KEATS'S  NOTE-BOOK  AS  MEDICAL  STUDENT 

of  his  best  and  most  generous  friends.  On  many 
occasions  he  gave  him  the  practical  aid  of  his 
purse,  allowing  him  to  draw  at  will  upon  him 
even  for  work  still  to  be  done.  For  the  last 
journey  to  Rome,  Mr.  Taylor  smoothed  the  path 
of  Keats  by  handing  him  £100  for  the  copyright 
of  "  Endymion,"  and  when  he  and  Severn  were 

-  251 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

at  their  wit's  end  for  fresh  supplies  they  were 
rescued  by  the  arrival  of  a  remittance  due  en- 
tirely to  Mr.  Taylor's  thoughtful  kindness. 

As  was  the  custom  in  the  early  part  of  the 
last  century,  the  premises  of  Messrs.  Taylor  and 
Hessey  at  93  Fleet  Street,  London,  were  partly 
devoted  to  business  and  partly  to  residential  pur- 
poses. The  shop  and  storerooms  of  their  publish- 
ing business  occupied  the  front  of  the  house  in 
Fleet  Street  itself,  but  the  rooms  at  the  back, 
overlooking  the  graveyard  of  St.  Bride's  Church, 
were,  in  Keats's  days,  used  by  Mr.  Taylor  as  his 
own  home,  his  partner,  Mr.  Hessey,  living  else- 
where. To  this  Fleet  Street  building  came  many 
of  the  choice  spirits  of  that  time,  including  Haz- 
litt,  Lamb,  Reynolds,  Allan  Cunningham,  and,  of 
course,  Keats  ;  and  those  old  windows  which  used 
to  look  out  on  the  quiet  graves  of  St.  Bride's 
many  a  time  shook  with  the  merriment  of  those 
convivial  gatherings.  On  other  occasions  Keats 
was  more  than  a  temporary  guest  here,  for  Mr. 
Taylor  seems  always  to  have  had  a  spare  bedroom 
to  place  at  his  friend's  disposal.  Within  the  last 
decade,  considerable  alterations  in  Fleet  Street 
have  resulted  in  the  demolition  of  this  house  of 
such  interesting  memories,  and  it  is  believed 
there  is  no  other  record  of  it  in  existence  apart 

252 


THE  BACK  OF  MR.  TAYLOR'S  FLEET  STREET  HOUSE 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

from  the  photograph  reproduced  in  these  pages, 
which  was  taken  only  a  short  time  before  the 
building  was  condemned. 

Among  the  numerous  portraits  of  Keats  it 
may  be  questioned  whether  any  is  regarded  with 
greater  general  favour  than  the  one  by  Severn, 
which  shows  the  poet  in  his  study  at  Hampstead, 
for  this  seems  somehow  to  suggest  the  dreamy, 
poetic  atmosphere  in  which  he  conceived  his 
matchless  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  Much  atten- 
tion has  been  devoted  recently  to  the  question  of 
Keats  portraiture,  but  the  subject  is  by  no  means 
exhausted.  All  writers  on  this  matter  appear  to 
have  entirely  overlooked  the  remark  of  Cowden 
Clarke  —  no  mean  judge,  by  the  way  —  that  the 
portrait  of  Wouvermans  by  Rembrandt  in  the 
Dulwich  Gallery  is  a  "  curiously  unconscious 
likeness  "  of  Keats.  Again,  the  same  early  friend 
calls  attention  to  the  portrait  showing  him  with 
one  leg  over  the  knee  of  the  other,  smoothing 
the  instep  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "In  that 
action,"  says  Clarke,  "  I  mostly  associate  him  in 
eager  parley  with  Leigh  Hunt  in  his  little  Vale 
of  Health  cottage."  This  interesting  portrait 
remains  to  be  published,  though  not  discovered. 

In  the  sadly  chequered  life  of  Keats  there  is 
no  space  which  seems  to  shine  so  brightly  with 

255 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  mingled  rays  of  possible  restoration  to  health 
and  happy  work  as  the  few  weeks  he  spent  at 
Winchester  with  Charles  Brown.  "  The  old  ca- 
thedral city,  with  its  peaceful  closes  breathing 
antiquity,  its  clear-coursing  streams  and  beautiful 
elm-shadowed  meadow  walks,  and  the  nimble 
and  pure  air  of  its  surrounding  downs,  exactly 
suited  Keats,  who  quickly  improved  both  in 
health  and  spirits.  The  days  which  he  spent 
here  were  the  last  good  days  of  his  life."  Under 
the  influence  of  this  deceptive  flicker,  he  came 
to  that  resolve  to  make  the  plunge  into  a  Lon- 
don life  of  journalism.  Hence  the  letter  to  his 
friend  Dilke,  begging  him  to  secure  a  "  couple 
of  rooms  in  Westminster.  Quietness  and  cheap- 
ness are  the  essentials."  As  Keats  was  following 
his  letter  in  a  few  days,  Dilke  had  little  time  to 
make  such  choice,  and  this,  together  with  his 
evident  desire  to  have  the  poet  near  him,  ac- 
counts for  him  taking  the  necessary  rooms  in 
Great  College  Street,  Westminster,  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  his  own  home.  Even  after 
nearly  a  hundred  years,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
imagine  a  thoroughfare  more  suited  to  the  needs 
of  Keats.  Though  in  the  heart  of  London  it 
is  not  of  it.  Down  one  side  runs  the  high  wall 
of  the  gardens  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  from 

256 


KEATS  IN  HIS  STUDY  AT  HAJIPSTEAD 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  upper  windows  of  the  old-fashioned  houses 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  there  are 
unique  views  of  that  historic  building.  This  was 


'"'L-  LcLL.7^^^ 

,..,  i&rL    J imtt  Lik/vvu    t 1* 

'  '. 

..,.„     „,    /.a,..,-'   .',-//  <;    L.~,,.t     t~*   /'.'/«     3"" 

,:;-f^<"    l»,«u.^    ~>y    *<••  ••       4   ^ 

^^  T  itatj,     t^wbJtu     &**    /«,««><!/* 

.          ......     «.    Wu1***iG'    ••''+[«. 

L  VJL  . 


ctuy 


LETTER  FROM  KEATS  TO  DILKE 

as  near  a  reproduction  of  the  restful  calm  of 
Winchester  as  all  London  could  furnish.  Here, 
if  anywhere,  the  poet  would  find  fit  environment 
for  the  literary  work  to  which  he  thought  he  had 
braced  himself. 

259 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

But  Keats's  days  of  peace  and  work  were  alike 
numbered.  In  London,  he  was  within  easy  reach 
of  Fanny  Brawne  again,  and  to  be  near  her  was 
to  have  no  rest  save  when  in  her  actual  presence. 
"  I  can  think  of  nothing  else,"  he  wrote ;  "  I  can- 
not exist  without  you.  1  am  forgetful  of  every- 
thing but  seeing  you  again  —  my  life  seems  to 
stop  there  —  I  see  no  further."  This  mood  was 
fatal  to  his  scheme  of  a  diligent  life  in  his 
quiet  rooms  at  Westminster ;  so  the  hastily 
taken  lodgings  were  as  quickly  abandoned,  and 
thenceforward,  in  the  close  neighbourhood  of  the 
home  of  his  disturbing  mistress,  the  last  sad  act  in 
the  tragedy  of  this  ill-fated  spirit  moved  onwards 
to  its  solemn  close. 

As  a  final  hope,  his  friends  and  doctors  urged 
trial  of  a  winter  in  Italy,  and  he  sailed  for  Naples 
on  September  18th,  1820,  in  the  company  of 
the  devoted  Severn.  Even  in  the  matter  of 
the  vessel  in  which  that  voyage  in  hope  was 
made,  the  ill  fate  of  Keats  did  not  desert  him. 
Though  all  visible  representation  of  the  "  Maria 
Crowther,"  the  boat  in  question,  has  long  dis- 
appeared, enquiry  at  Lloyd's  has  elicited  several 
interesting  particulars.  It  has  been  stated  that 
the  ship  was  ill  adapted  for  the  conveyance  of 
passengers,  and  that  such  was  quite  literally  the 

260 


GREAT  COLLEGE  STREET,  WESTMINSTER 

case  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  she 
was  only  of  127  tons  register.  In  the  technical 
language  of  the  shipwright,  she  was  "  Brigantine 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


rig,  with  standing  bowsprit,  square  stern,  carvel 
built,  and  eagle's-head  figurehead."  The  "  Maria 
Crowther"  was  built  at  Chester  in  1810,  and 
was  primarily  intended  merely  to  trade  between 
Cardiff  and  Liverpool.  Probably  the  voyage  to 


if .-  •  Vib- 
4ty 

IMt  • 


POETICAL  WORKS 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


KEATS'S  COPY  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

Naples  was  only  a  temporary  departure  from  her 
usual  route,  for  later  she  evidently  returned  to 
the  St.  George's  Channel  trade,  and  the  vessel 
was  wrecked  off  the  Isle  of  Man  on  November 
7th,  1837.  It  seems  that  the  name  of  the  cap- 
tain of  the  ship  was  Robert  Dawes,  and  that  he 

262 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

never  realised  the  part  he  had  played  in  the  life- 
history  of  Keats  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that 
none  of  his  descendants  remember  him  to  have 
remarked  on  his  having  had  the  poet  for  a 
passenger.  It  was  from  the  "  Maria  Crowther  " 


KEATS'S  LAST  SONNET 

that  Keats  penned  that  pathetic  letter  to  his  friend 
Brown  in  which  he  wrote :  "  Land  and  sea,  weak- 
ness and  decline,  are  the  great  separators,  but 
Death  is  the  great  divorcer  for  ever." 

Among  the  few  books  he  took  with  him  on  this 
voyage  Keats  included  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's 

263 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Poems,  the  gift  of  his  good  friend  Reynolds.  In 
that  old  folio  volume  there  are  two  intensely 
interesting  double  pages.  The  first  are  at  its 
commencement,  and  while  the  right-hand  leaf 
records  the  original  gift  of  the  volume,  the  left- 
hand  page  perpetuates  how  it  was  presented  by 
Keats  to  Severn  a  few  weeks  before  the  end, 
and  in  1881  passed  into  the  possession  of  Sir 
Charles  W.  Dilke,  the  grandson  of  one  of  the 
poet's  warmest  friends.  If,  now,  the  volume  is 
opened  at  the  beginning  of  "A  Lover's  Com- 
plaint," the  opposite  page  will  be  seen  to  bear 
a  sonnet  in  the  familiar  handwriting  of  Keats. 
This  was  his  last  message  to  the  world. 

Retarded  on  the  voyage  down  the  English 
Channel  by  adverse  winds,  the  "  Maria  Crow- 
ther  "  cast  anchor  off  Lul worth  Cove,  and  thus 
Keats  was  able  to  enjoy  yet  one  more  day  on  the 
soil  of  that  land  which  was  so  soon  to  fade  from 
his  eyes  for  ever.  Returning  to  the  ship  in  a 
mood  of  solemn  calm,  he,  that  night,  with 
thoughts  which  winged  their  way  once  more  to 
his  betrothed,  and  with  vision  fixed  upon  some 
radiant  point  in  the  clear  autumnal  heavens 
above,  found  his  rare  inspiration  return  yet  once 
again.  To  few  poets  has  it  been  given  to  crown 
their  work  with  such  perfect  lines,  or  to  enshrine 

264 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  memory  of  their  love  with  their  latest  singing 
breath. 

"  Bright  star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art  — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors  :  — 
No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 

Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 
Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever,  —  or  else  swoon  to  death." 


265 


IX 
IN    CARLYLE'S    COUNTRY 


IX 

IN   CARLYLE'S   COUNTRY 

"  ATo  stirer  does  the  Auldgarth  bridge,  that  his  father  helped  to 
build,  carry  the  traveller  over  the  turbulent  water  beneath  it,  than 
Carlyle's  books  convey  the  reader  over  chasms  and  confusions, 
where  before  there  was  no  way,  or  only  an  inadequate  one." 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

A  SMALL,  and  sleepy  Annandale  town,  a  quiet 
road  in  Chelsea  by  the  side  of  the  Thames  — 
these  are  the  shrines  sought  out  with  affectionate 
solicitude  by  the  disciples  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 
Each  shrine  in  its  way  affords  the  pilgrim  much 
satisfaction  of  spirit.  Ecclefechan  and  the  sur- 
rounding country  fit  in,  somehow,  with  one's 
previous  anticipations  of  what  Carlyle's  native 
place  should  be :  Cheyne  Row,  with  its  atmos- 
phere of  solid  comfort  and  stability,  seems  to 
keep  harmony  with  the  victorious  life-struggle 
which  took  end  there  in  the  winter  of  1881. 

A  native  of  the  village  where  Carlyle  was  born, 
aware  of  my  intention  to  visit  that  spot,  offered 
the  forbidding  warning,  "  Don't  go  to  Eccle- 
fechan expecting  to  find  worshippers  of  Carlyle." 

269 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

The  warning  was  not  unneeded  ;  for  than  Eccle- 
fechan  there  surely  never  was  a  spot  where  was 
more  literally  fulfilled  the  proverb,  "  A  prophet 
is  not  without  honour  save  in  his  own  country." 
Not  once,  but  many  times  while  plying  the 
natives  with  questions,  I  was  greeted  with  the 
astonishing  query,  "  Which  Carlyle  ?  "  There  is 
a  tradition  in  the  district  that  an  old  roadman, 
now  dead,  happening  to  be  addressed  by  a  party 
of  Carlyle  devotees,  ran  over  the  names  of  the 
various  members  of  the  family,  and  dwelt  with 
special  emphasis  upon  that  of  Sandy,  "  who  was 
a  rare  breeder  o'  sows."  "  But  there  was  one 
called  Thomas,  you  know,"  rejoined  the  eager 
pilgrims.  "  Ay,"  retorted  the  old  roadman, 
"  there  was  Tarn ;  he  gaed  awa'  up  to  London, 
but  I  dinna  think  he  ever  did  muckle  guid." 

Vain  indeed,  then,  is  the  search  of  the  man 
who  goes  to  Ecclefechan  on  the  lookout  for 
worshippers  of  Carlyle.  And,  seemingly,  it  all 
arises  from  the  utilitarian  way  the  natives  have 
of  regarding  the  most  famous  member  of  the 
Carlyle  family.  A  mild  remonstrance  addressed 
to  the  hotel-keeper  on  his  lack  of  appreciation  in 
not  at  least  hanging  a  portrait  of  the  sage  in  his 
public  room  only  elicited  the  grumbling  reply, 
"  What  did  he  do  for  the  village  ? "  Annandale 

270 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

people  are  slow  to  believe  any  generosity  of 
Thomas  Carlyle.  If  you  remind  them  that  he 
gave  Craigenputtoch  to  Edinburgh  University, 
they  will  answer,  "  It 's  the  only  thing  he  did  give 
away  ; "  and  if  you  tell  them  of  his  many  private 
benefactions  to  struggling  authors  —  such  as 
those  £5  notes  to  Thomas  Cooper  with  the  re- 
mark, "  If  you  don't  pay  me  again  I  '11  not  hang 
you "  —  they  only  stare  at  you  with  that  hard, 
unbelieving  look  of  theirs.  Gifts  of  the  right 
hand  unknown  of  the  left  are  not  held  in  honour 
in  Ecclefechan. 

Ecclefechan  is  not  an  attractive  village.  In 
the  olden  days  when  a  double  row  of  beech  trees 
grew  by  the  side  of  the  open  burn  which  ran 
down  the  middle  of  the  street,  it  may  have  been 
more  picturesque,  yet  even  in  those  days  Burns 
could  describe  it  as  an  "  unfortunate,  wicked  little 
village."  The  beech  trees  are  gone  now,  and 
only  a  small  part  of  the  burn  remains  uncovered, 
the  latter  change  being  explained  by  an  iron 
tablet  in  the  village,  bearing  this  inscription : — 

"  1875 

209  feet  of  the  Burn  below  this  spot  was  arched  over  by 
Dr.  George  Arnott  at  his  own  expense." 

In  approaching  Ecclefechan  from  the  railway 
station,  the  pilgrim  enters  the  village  by  the 

18  273 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 


north  end ;  and  in  that  case  the  house  in  which 
Carlyle  was  born  must  be  looked  for  on  the  right 
hand.  The  accompanying  view  of  this  house 
was  taken  from  the  south  end  of  the  village,  both 
because  such  a  standpoint  showed  the  place  at 

its  best,  and  be- 
cause it  gave  the 
camera  the  fairest 
chance  to  secure 
a  good  picture. 
Hence  the  Carlyle 
house  is  seen  on 
the  left ;  and  just 
above  it  the  burn 

ARCH  HOUSE,  ECCLEFECHAN  floWS     from     Under 

that       archway 

•erected  by  Dr.  George  Arnott  "  at  his  own 
expense." 

Although  built  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago,  the  house  in  which  Carlyle  was  born,  called 
Arch  House  on  account  of  the  wide  archway 
running  from  front  to  back,  shows  no  sign 
of  decay.  It  was  built  by  Carlyle's  father,  an 
honest  mason,  who  left  off  rearing  houses  when 
the  old  taste  for  substantial  buildings  went 
out  of  fashion.  "  Nothing  that  he  undertook 
to  do,"  witnessed  Carlyle,  "  but  he  did  it  faith- 

274 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

fully  and  like  a  true  man.     I  shall  look  on  the 
houses   he   built  with  a  certain  proud   interest. 


ROOM  IN  WHICH  CARLYLE  WAS  BORN 

They  stand  firm  and  sound  to  the  heart  all  over 
his  little  district.  No  one  that  comes  after  him 
will  say  '  Here  was  the  finger  of  a  hollow  eye 
servant.' ' 

275 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

The  tiny  room  in  which  Carlyle  was  born  —  it 
is  at  the  top  of  the  house  in  the  right-hand  cor- 
ner of  the  picture  —  is  devoted  now  to  the  hous- 
ing of  some  interesting  mementos  of  the  infant 
who  drew  his  first  breath  there  on  December  4th, 
1795.  In  one  corner  an  unpretentious  bookcase 
holds  a  copy  of  the  familar  brown-covered  "  Peo- 
ple's Edition  "  of  his  writings ;  a  recess  near  by 
is  filled  with  bits  of  old  china  from  the  house  in 
Cheyne  Row  ;  on  the  mantelpiece  are  two  turned 
wooden  candlesticks,  a  gift  of  John  Sterling,  sent 
from  Rome ;  a  table  in  the  corner  provides  a 
resting-place  for  the  philosopher's  reading-lamp 
and  tea-caddy  ;  and  above  a  framed  letter  on  the 
south  wall  two  of  his  hats  are  hung.  More 
attention  is  paid  to  these  hats  than  to  any  of  the 
other  relics.  What  higher  happiness  can  the 
hero-worshipper  wish  than  the  being  able  to  say 
he  has  had  his  head  inside  Carlyle's  hat  ?  Inside 
it  goes,  in  a  quite  literal  sense.  Up  to  the  time 
of  my  visit  only  twenty-nine  heads  had  been 
found  to  fit  that  hat.  I  regret  to  add  that  mine 
did  not  make  the  thirtieth.  All  this  applies 
especially  to  one  hat  —  a  black,  wide-brimmed 
soft  felt,  perhaps  the  identical  hat  which  prompted 
the  immortal  dialogue  between  the  passenger 
and  the  'bus  driver. 

276 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  Queer  'at  that  old  fellow  'ad  who  just 
got  in." 

"  Queer  'at !  ay,  he  may  wear  a  queer  'at,  but 
what  would  you  give  for  the  'edpiece  that 's  in- 
side of  it  ? " 

The  other  hat,  just  as  broad-brimmed,  but 
straw  instead  of  felt,  is  none  too  large  for  an 
ordinary  cranium,  —  a  fact  not  without  its  con- 
solatory side. 

Not  far  from  the  hats  there  is  a  frame  of  por- 
traits of  Carlyle  and  his  wife,  somewhat  roughly 
mounted,  but  of  exceptional  interest.  Of  Car- 
lyle there  are  six  portraits  ;  of  his  wife,  four.  One 
of  the  portraits  of  Carlyle,  that  bearing  the  date 
1845,  ranks  among  the  earliest  likenesses  of  him 
extant,  and  has  a  considerable  resemblance  to 
that  crayon  drawing  by  Samuel  Lawrence,  of 
which  Carlyle  thought  so  highly  that  he  com- 
mended it  to  Emerson  as  the  one  most  suitable 
for  a  frontispiece  to  the  American  edition  of  his 
works.  While  all  the  portraits  of  Carlyle  here 
have  a  considerable  resemblance  to  one  another 
and  harmonise  with  most  of  the  portraits  that 
have  been  made  of  him,  those  of  his  wife  which 
find  a  place  in  this  frame,  while  consistent  with 
each  other,  have  little  or  nothing  in  common 
with  that  graceful  and  handsome  young  lady 

277 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

who  figures  in  the  second  volume  of  Carlyle's 
"  Early  Letters."  In  these  portraits  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle's face  recalls  that  of  George  Eliot.  The 
brow  is  high  and  massive,  the  eyes  deep  sunk 
and  sad,  the  mouth  large  and  cynical.  If  Mrs. 
Carlyle  was  ever  like  her  Edinburgh  portrait  of 
1826,  she  must  have  changed  amazingly  ;  if  these 
later  portraits  represent  any  physiognomic  con- 
tinuity, the  artist  of  the  Edinburgh  portrait 
must  have  falsified  amazingly.  One  of  the  pho- 
tographs of  Mrs.  Carlyle  shows  her  standing  be- 
hind a  velvet-covered  chair,  on  which  her  dog 
"  Nero  "  is  reclining  at  ease  ;  and  another  photo- 
graph of  that  small  quadruped  who  was  her  sole 
companion  on  the  ride  from  which  she  returned 
dead  may  be  seen  in  a  different  part  of  the  room. 
In  the  visitors'  book  at  the  hotel  in  Ecclefechan 
I  found  abundant  evidence  that  America  still 
takes  a  zealous  interest  in  the  author  of  "  Sartor 
Resartus."  To  more  than  one  American  name 
I  found  the  legend  appended  :  "  On  a  pilgrim- 
age to  Carlyle's  country ; "  and,  as  was  most 
appropriate,  I  noticed  that  in  the  room  where 
Carlyle  was  born,  signs  of  that  interest  were 
not  lacking.  On  the  table  there  lay  a  sub- 
stantial volume  of  the  ledger  type,  bearing  this 
inscription :  — 

278 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  Visitors'  Book  at  the  Birthplace  and  Grave  of  Thomas  C'arlyle. 
Presented  to  Mr.  Peter  Scott  of  Ecclefechan,  Scotland,  by 
Joseph  Cook,  of  Boston,  Massachusetts,  March  20,  1881." 

In  looking  at  the  Arch  House  from  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  road,  the  spire  of  the  United 
Presbyterian  Church  is  a  conspicuous  object  in 
the  background  at  the  right.  On  the  other  side 
of  that  spire  is  the  Ecclefechan  kirkyard,  where 
Thomas  Carlyle  is  buried.  So  do  the  beginnings 
and  ends  of  things  meet,  — here  the  room  memor- 
able for  his  birth,  there  the  kirkyard  memorable 
for  his  grave.  That  spire  brings  to  memory  a 
Carlyle  story  told  me  in  the  district.  Carlyle's 
father  and  the  family  in  general  were  adher- 
ents of  a  dissenting  congregation  known  as  the 
Seceders  or  Associate  Congregation.  But  in 
1847,  these  and  other  dissenters  formed  them- 
selves into  the  United  Presbyterian  Church  ;  and 
henceforward  the  Carlyle  family  were  reckoned 
among  its  members.  By  and  by  the  newly 
named  congregation  addressed  itself  to  the  erec- 
tion of  a  new  church,  and  Carlyle's  brother  James 
promised  a  contribution  of  £50  to  the  building. 
That  £50  was  never  paid.  Whether  James 
Carlyle  made  his  promise  in  good  faith  none 
can  tell ;  but  it  is  affirmed  that  the  erection  of 
the  spire  was  made  the  pretext  on  his  part  for 

279 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

declining  to  keep  his  promise.  So  the  spire  cost 
£50  more  than  its  contract  price.  Nor  was  that 
all.  The  incident  terminated  by  James  Carlyle 
and  his  family  leaving  the  United  Presbyterian 
Church  and  becoming  members  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland  congregation  at  Middlevie. 

Changes  take  place  so  slowly  in  Scottish  vil- 
lages that  the  Ecclefechan  of  to-day  differs  but 
little  from  the  Ecclefechan  of  Carlyle's  boyhood. 
Buildings  once  put  to  one  purpose  are  now  put 
to  another ;  otherwise  they  remain  now  as  then. 
So  it  happens  that  the  humble  building  in  which 
Carlyle  laid  the  foundation  of  his  education  is 
still  standing,  though  not  now  used  as  a  school. 
One  end  abuts  against  the  side  of  the  United 
Presbyterian  Church ;  the  other  merges  into  the 
wall  of  the  kirkyard  where  Carlyle  is  buried. 
Utilised  now  as  a  dwelling-house,  it  is  easy  to 
recall  the  days  when  it  was  the  academia  of  the 
district,  —  so  close  is  its  likeness  to  many  a 
building  in  other  Scottish  villages  still  devoted 
to  educational  uses.  Little  is  remembered  of 
Carlyle's  earliest  school-days ;  and  indeed  it  is 
hardly  to  be  expected  that  a  boy  of  five  would 
furnish  much  pabulum  for  the  biographer.  A  few 
years  ago  there  died  in  Ecclefechan  an  aged  lady 
who  claimed  to  have  attended  this  school  with 

280 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Carlyle ;  but  her  reminiscences  did  not  go  be- 
yond that  bare  fact.  The  purpose  of  Carlyle's 
father  in  sending  him  to  this  school,  and  after- 
ward to  Annan  Academy  and  Edinburgh  Uni- 
versity is  well  known ;  he  had  the  desire  of 


CARLYLE'S  FIRST  SCHOOLHOUSE 

every  Scottish  parent  to  see  his  son  "wag  his 
pow  in  a  pu'pit."  Of  course  the  worthy  man 
was  woefully  disappointed  when  his  son  found 
that  such  an  occupation  was  impossible  for  him  ; 
but  in  this,  as  in  so  many  other  unpleasant  mat- 
ters, he  consumed  his  own  smoke.  "  His  toler- 
ance for  me,"  says  Carlyle,  "  his  trust  in  me  was 

281 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

great.  When  I  declined  going  forward  into  the 
church  though  his  heart  was  set  upon  it,  he 
respected  my  scruples,  my  volition,  and  patiently 
let  me  have  my  wray." 

This  self-denial  becomes  more  noteworthy  in 
the  light  of  an  anecdote  related  to  me  in 
Ecclefechan.  It  had  become  known  in  the  vil- 
lage that  "  Tom  Carlyle "  was  destined  for  the 
Kirk  and  the  village  gossips  were  always  pressing 
old  James  Carlyle  with  the  awkward  question, 
"  Why  is  not  Tom  coming  out  for  the  Kirk  ? " 
Now  the  old  man  was  too  proud  to  own  his  dis- 
appointment to  the  village  gossips,  and  so  one 
day,  when  the  question  was  more  pointedly  put 
than  usual,  he  rejoined,  "  Do  you  think  oor  Tarn 
is  going  to  stand  up  and  be  criticised  by  a  man 
like  Matthie  Latimer  ? "  —  the  said  Matthie 
Latimer  being  an  argumentative  theologian  of 
the  meeting-house,  who  was  always  ready  with 
his  remarks  upon  the  pulpit  performances  gone 
through  there. 

The  fate  which  has  befallen  the  schoolhouse 
has  also  overtaken  the  old  meeting-house  where 
in  the  early  days  of  last  century  the  young  Car- 
lyle heard  many  an  orthodox  and  long-winded 
discourse.  He  never  forgot  those  childish  expe- 
riences. "  Poor  temple  of  my  childhood,"  he 

282 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

wrote  sixty  years  after,  "  to  me  more  sacred  at 
this  moment  than  perhaps  the  biggest  cathedral 
then  extant  could  have  been :  rude,  rustic, 
bare,  —  no  temple  in  the  world  was  more  so,  — 
but  there  were  sacred  lambencies,  tongues  of 


THE  OLD  MEETIXG-HOUSE,  ECCLEFECHAN 

authentic  flame  from  heaven  which  kindled 
what  was  best  in  one,  what  has  not  yet  gone 
out."  It  is  marvellous  to  note  how  vivid  Car- 
lyle's  recollections  were  of  the  serious-faced  peas- 
ants who  used  to  frequent  that  old  meeting- 
house ;  even  when  his  own  long  life  was  drawing 
to  a  close  he  could  paint  their  portraits  down  to 

283 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  smallest  detail  of  dress.  Even  given  such  a 
remarkable  eye  as  he  had  for  grasping  the 
minutest  idiosyncracies  of  personal  appearance, 
he  must  have  enjoyed  some  favourable  coign  of 
vantage  from  which  to  view  those  old  Seceders, 
Sunday  by  Sunday.  And  such  he  had ;  for  I 
learned  that  the  Carlyle  seat  was  in  the  gallery 
of  the  meeting-house,  from  whence  the  bulk  of 
worshippers  could  be  carefully  surveyed. 

Strongly  attached  as  old  James  Carlyle  was  to 
the  Seceders,  a  trivial  incident  in  the  history  of 
the  congregation  cut  him  adrift  from  them  for  a 
time.  It  happened  that  a  new  manse  was  to  be 
built  for  the  minister,  and  there  arose  a  division 
of  opinion  as  to  the  number  of  rooms  it  should 
contain,  —  James  Carlyle  voting  in  favour  of 
such  a  minimum  as  seemed  consistent  with  a 
creed  which  laid  more  emphasis  on  the  next 
world  than  on  this.  His  views,  however,  were 
not  those  of  the  majority ;  and  to  mark  his  dis- 
approval of  such  a  worldly  policy  as  was  implied 
in  the  erection  of  too  spacious  a  manse,  he  left 
the  communion  for  a  time.  With  characteristic 
Scottish  forethought,  the  old  Seceders  had  sev- 
eral flues  placed  in  their  meeting-house  at  the 
time  of  its  erection,  in  anticipation  of  the  day 
when  the  congregation  should  either  dwindle 

284 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

away  or  by  the  erection  of  a  new  building 
should  find  it  necessary  to  dispose  of  the  old 
one.  It  was  the  latter  contingency  which  arose, 
and  the  old  meeting-house,  by  reason  of  its 
flues,  was  easily  transformed  into  a  number  of 
tenements. 

Whatever  may  have  been  Carlyle's  opinion  of 
ministers  in  general,  he  cherished  very  affection- 
ately the  memory  of  that  aged  minister  of  the 
meeting-house  who  baptised  him,  preached  to 
him,  visited  his  father's  house,  and  taught  him 
Latin.  "John  Johnstone,"  he  said,  "was  the 
priestliest  man  I  ever  under  any  ecclesiastical  guise 
was  privileged  to  look  upon.  .  .  .  He  sleeps 
not  far  from  my  father  in  the  Ecclefechan  church- 
yard ;  the  teacher  and  the  taught.  '  Blessed,'  I 
again  say,  '  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord. 
They  do  rest  from  their  labours  ;  their  works  fol- 
low them.' '  The  monument  over  the  grave  of 
this  worthy  man  was  built  by  Carlyle's  father, 
and  it  is  an  admirable  example  of  the  sterling 
honesty  of  his  work  as  a  mason.  It  is  generally 
believed  in  Ecclefechan  that  the  inscription  on  the 
monument  was  composed  by  Carlyle  himself,  and 
even  if  that  were  not  the  case  it  is  worth  pre- 
serving for  the  picture  it  gives  of  a  remarkable 
man :  — 

285 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  All  that  was  mortal  of 
The  Revd.  John  Johnstone, 
Minister  of  the  Associate  Congregation. 

Ecclefechan, 

rests  here  in  hope  of  the  resurrection  of  life. 
He  was  born  A.D.  1730. 
He  was  ordained  A.D.  1760. 
He  died  May  28th,  A.D.  1812, 
in  the  82nd  year  of  his  age  and  the  52nd  of  his 

ministry. 
Endowed  with  strong  natural  talents 

Which  were 

cultivated  by  a  liberal  education 
And  sanctified  by  Divine  influence 

He  was 

As  a  scholar  respectable 
As  a  theologian  learned 
And  as  a  minister  able,  faithful  and  laborious." 

When  the  mason  trade  deteriorated  to  such 
an  extent  that  honest  work  went  out  of  fashion, 
James  Carlyle  turned  to  the  occupation  of  farm- 
ing, "  that  so  he  might  keep  all  his  family  about 
him."  The  first  farm  he  took  was  that  known 
as  Mainhill,  situated  on  the  great  north  road, 
about  two  miles  from  Ecclefechan.  Here  the 
Carlyles  lived  from  1815  to  1826.  It  was  not 
a  desirable  farm  at  that  time  ;  "  a  wet,  clayey 
spot ; "  Carlyle  describes  it,  "a  place  of  horrid 
drudgery,"  and  in  1825  he  writes  to  his  brother 
Alexander :  "  I  hope  my  father  will  not  think  of 

286 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

burdening  himself  further  with  Mainhill  and  its 
plashy  soil  when  the  lease  has  expired." 

Two  anecdotes  of  the  Mainhill  days  told  me  in 
the  district  throw  a  little  light  upon  the  domes- 
tic history  of  the  family  at  that  period.  An  old 
man,  Peter  Scott  by  name,  who  served  on  the 
farm  at  Mainhill  as  a  lad,  told  my  informant  that 


MAINHILL 

when  his  day's  work  was  done  he  took  a  seat  by 
the  kitchen  fire  and  "held  my  head  down,  for 
fear  ane  o'  them  wad  begin  on  me."  All  the 
Carlyles  alike,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
mother,  were  noted  and  feared  and  hated  in 
Ecclefechan  for  their  caustic  tongues ;  and  this 
incident  of  the  serving  lad  holding  his  head  down 
for  fear  one  of  the  family  might  begin  on  him 
throws  that  hatred  into  sharp  relief. 

The  other  anecdote  concerns  the  father  alone, 

287 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

and  is  valuable  as  indicating  the  origin  of  Carlyle's 
apostrophising  habit.  A  gang  of  saw-millers 
had  put  up  at  Mainhill,  increasing  to  an  un- 
usual size  the  company  which  gathered  round 
the  old  man  when  he  conducted  family  worship. 
His  consecutive  reading  had  brought  him  to  that 
chapter  of  Genesis  where  Potiphar's  wife  figures 
so  infamously  with  Joseph,  and  he  read  it  through 
with  his  severest  enunciation,  closing  the  book 
with  emphatic  action  as  he  shouted,  "  And  thou 
wast  a  b — !  " —  a  coarse  canine  word  which  seems 
to  have  been  often  on  his  lips. 

When  his  wife  was  in  that  unsettled  mental 
state  which  ultimately  prompted  her  removal 
from  home  for  a  short  time,  she  did  a  deed  that 
afterwards  grieved  and  appalled  herself.  Seeing 
the  old  man  stooping  with  a  pail  for  water  at  the 
well,  she  stole  forward  and  pushed  him  bodily  in. 
Then  in  a  state  of  mortal  terror  she  rushed  into 
the  house,  expecting  him  to  well-nigh  slay  her  in 
an  ungovernable  passion.  To  her  amazement, 
however,  when  she  was  singing  at  the  pitch  of 
her  voice  in  the  pretence  of  fearing  him  not, 
he  entered  quite  calmly  and  saluted  her  with, 
"  Well,  thou  art  a  merry  b—  ! " 

The  wife  of  the  present  tenant  of  Mainhill  was 
kind  enough  to  show  me  over  the  house,  pointing 

288 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

out  the  rooms  which  were  in  existence  when  the 
Carlyles  lived  there,  and  the  additions  which 
had  been  made  since.  Mr.  J.  A.  Froude  in- 
formed me  that  in  my  photograph  Mainhill  is 
twice  the  size  it  used  to  be ;  and  he  added  that 
Carlyle  always  had  unpleasant  remembrances  of 
that  place.  The  chief  addition  to  the  house  is 
the  two-storied  wing  which  occupies  the  fore- 
ground of  the  picture,  other  alterations  in  the 
rear  not  affecting  the  size  of  the  building  so  much 
as  its  convenience. 

At  one  period  in  the  early  life  of  Carlyle, 
when  the  church,  law,  and  tutoring  had  each 
failed  to  provide  him  with  an  occupation,  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  might  solve  the  problem 
of  his  life  by  taking  a  small  farm  in  his  native 
district,  where  he  could  study  and  write  in  peace, 
while  one  of  his  brothers  attended  to  the  prac- 
tical work  of  the  holding.  "  A  house  in  the 
country,  and  a  horse  to  ride  on,  I  must  and 
will  have  if  it  is  possible."  This  was  the  mes- 
sage which  set  the  Mainhill  people  on  the  look- 
out ;  and  soon  they  were  able  to  report  that  in 
the  small  farm  of  Hoddam  Hill  they  had  secured 
the  place  he  needed.  Accordingly  Carlyle  took 
possession  of  Hoddam  Hill  farm  at  the  Whit- 
sunday term,  1825,  his  mother  going  with  him 

19  289 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

as  housekeeper,  and  his  brother  Alick  as  practical 
farmer. 

For  a  wonder,  considering  the  nature  of  the 
man,  Carlyle  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
place.  **  I  have  been  to  see  the  place,"  he  wrote 
Miss  Welsh,  "  and  I  like  it  well  so  far  as  I  am 
interested  in  it.  There  is  a  good  house  where 
I  may  establish  myself  in  comfortable  quarters. 
The  views  from  it  are  superb.  There  are  hard 
smooth  roads  to  gallop  on  towards  any  point  of 
the  compass,  and  ample  space  to  dig  and  prune 
under  the  pure  canopy  of  a  wholesome  sky.  The 
ancient  Tower  of  Repentance  stands  in  a  corner 
of  the  farm,  a  fit  memorial  for  reflecting  sinners." 
This  was  Carlyle's  first  impression  of  the  farm ; 
nor  did  occupancy  prove  that  distance  had  lent 
enchantment  to  the  view.  "  We  live  here  on  our 
hill -top,  enjoying  a  degree  of  solitude  that  might 
content  the  great  Zimmermann  himself.  Few 
mortals  come  to  visit  us,  I  go  to  visit  none." 
Long  years  after  he  could  recall  the  spot  with 
feelings  of  unmixed  pleasure.  "  Hoddam  Hill," 
he  wrote  in  his  "  Reminiscences,"  "  was  a  neat, 
compact  little  farm,  rent  £100,  which  my  father 
had  leased  for  me,  on  which  was  a  prettyish  little 
cottage  for  dwelling-house  ;  and  from  the  window 

such  a  view  (fifty  miles  in  radius  from  beyond 

290 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Tyndale  to  beyond  St.  Bees,  Solway  Firth,  and 
all  the  fells  to  Ingleborough  inclusive)  as  Britain 
or  the  world  could  hardly  have  matched." 

At  the  present  time  the  Carlyle  pilgrim  has 
considerable  difficulty  in  finding  Hoddam  Hill,  — 
the  fact  of  the  philosopher's  tenancy  of  that  spot 
having  faded  from 
the  local  memory. 
All  my  questions 
were  answered 
with  stolid  nega- 
tives. I  must  mean 
Mainhill.  Even  a 
man  who  had  lived 
on  the  estate  all  HoDDAM  HlLL 

his  life  was  ignorant  that  Carlyle  once  rented  one 
of  its  farms.  A  twofold  explanation  offers  of 
this  somewhat  surprising  fact.  Carlyle  occupied 
the  farm  only  for  a  year  ;  and  the  local  name  for 
the  house  appears  to  be  "  The  Hill "  rather  than 
"  Hoddam  Hill." 

If  additional  proof  were  wanted  of  the  indif- 
ference with  which  Carlyle  is  regarded  in  Annan- 
dale,  it  might  be  adduced  from  the  deplorable 
condition  of  the  house  in  which  he  lived  at 
Hoddam  Hill.  The  front  door  has  been  blocked 
up,  and  the  building  so  divided  internally  that  it 

291 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

now  provides  shelter  for  two  labourers'  families. 
When  I  saw  the  place  it  was  in  a  condition 
that  would  have  been  disgraceful  had  the  build- 
ing been  used  as  a  pig-sty.  Mud  and  dirt 
were  plentiful  in  all  directions ;  heaps  of  rubbish 
made  walking  a  gymnastic  exercise ;  fences  were 
broken  down  and  gates  lay  prostrate  ;  and  un- 
washed and  unkempt  children  looked  out  from 
the  doorways. 

Carlyle  may  have  had  some  ideas  of  settling 
down  at  Hoddam  Hill.  It  was  a  delightful  spot, 
and  admirably  adapted  to  the  case  of  a  man  who 
needed  perfect  quiet  and  unlimited  fresh  air. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.  He  was  himself,  however, 
I  believe,  to  blame  for  starting  the  sequence  of 
events  which  led  to  his  removal.  It  happened  in 
this  way.  Carlyle  rode  a  great  deal  at  Hoddam  ; 
and  one  day  the  laird's  wife,  Mrs.  Sharpe,  was 
walking  gently  down  the  hill  near  Repentance 
Tower,  when  he  passed  her  on  his  horse.  As 
soon  as  he  got  in  front  of  her  he  put  his  horse  to 
the  gallop  with  such  violence  that  the  lady  was 
soundly  besplashed  with  mud  from  head  to  foot. 
It  was  after  this  ungallant  incident,  as  I  was  in- 
formed, that  the  laird,  General  Sharpe,  called  at 
Hoddam  Hill,  and  Carlyle  went  to  him  at  the 

door,  declining  to  ask  him  in.     They  had  a  battle 

292 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

royal  of  words,  and  the  general  brought  matters 
to  a  crisis  by  asking  with  a  sneer,  "  You,  what 
do  you  know  about  farming  ? "  This  thunder 
roused  the  Carlylean  lightning.  "  One  thing  I 
can  do,"  he  shouted,  "  I  can  pay  the  rent !  That 's 
all  you  have  to  do  with  the  land,  and  I  '11  feed 
laverocks  on  it  if  I  like."  Then  he  slammed 
the  door  in  the  irate  general's  face.  Carlyle  had 
often  \vanted  a  door  of  his  own  which  he  might 
"  slam  in  the  face  of  all  nauseous  intrusions  ;"  he 
had  got  it  now  —  and  used  it.  But  he  was  not 
to  have  it  for  long.  No  laird  would  endure  such 
treatment  from  a  tenant ;  at  any  rate,  General 
Sharpe  was  not  the  man  to  endure  it.  And  so 
Carlyle  had  to  quit  Hoddam  Hill  and  look  about 
for  a  new  home. 

During  his  year  at  Hoddam  Hill,  a  year  which 
abode  as  "  a  russet-coated  idyl "  in  his  memory 
because  of  the  visit  Miss  Welsh  paid  him  there, 
Carlyle  had  two  objects  in  his  landscape  in  which 
he  took  a  deep  interest ;  and  they  are  of  interest 
to  us  because  his  eyes  rested  upon  them  so  often, 
and  also  because  there  are  so  many  allusions  to 
them  in  his  letters.  Chief  of  these  was  Repent- 
ance Tower,  a  solemn-looking  building  which 
stood  near  the  house,  but  a  little  higher  up  on 

the  hill.     It  is  surrounded  by  a  graveyard,  and 

293 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

hangs  there  so  spectral  amid  its  memorials  of  the 
dead  that  it  might  furnish  food  for  thought  in 
sinners  of  a  less  reflecting  turn  of  mind  than 
Carlyle.  The  cause  of  its  erection  and  the  origin 
of  its  name  are  thus  related :  A  certain  Lord 
Herries  —  identified  as  the  champion  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  —  was  famous  among  those  who, 
three  or  four  centuries  ago,  made  forays  into  the 
English  border.  On  one  occasion,  when  return- 
ing with  many  prisoners,  he  was  overtaken  by  a 
storm  while  crossing  the  Solway ;  and  in  order  to 
lighten  his  boat,  he  cut  all  their  throats  and  cast 
them  into  the  sea.  Some  time  after,  feeling 
great  qualms  of  conscience,  he  built  this  sturdy 
tower,  carving  over  the  door  the  figures  of  a  dove 
and  serpent,  emblems  of  remorse  and  grace,  with 
the  word  "  Repentance "  between  them.  The 
other  prominent  object  in  Carlyle's  landscape  was 
Hoddam  Kirk,  a  low-lying  and  rather  picturesque 
building  with  a  curious  little  tower.  In  that 
building  hung  the  bell  to  which  he  makes  a 
pathetic  allusion  in  his  reminiscences  of  life  at 
Hoddam  Hill.  "  My  thoughts  were  peaceable, 
full  of  pity  and  humanity  as  they  had  never  been 
before.  Nowhere  can  I  recollect  of  myself  such 
pious  musings,  communings  silent  and  sponta- 
neous with  fact  and  nature,  as  in  those  poor  An- 

294 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


nandale  localities.  The  sound  of  the  Kirk-bell 
once  or  twice  on  Sunday  mornings  (from  Hod- 
dam  Kirk,  about  a  mile  on  the  plains  below  me) 
was  strangely  touching,  like  the  departing  voice 
of  eighteen  hundred  years." 

The  abrupt  termination  of  Carlyle's  tenancy  of 
Hoddam  Hill  coincided  with  the  expiration  of 
his  father's  lease 
of  Mainhill;  and 
there  had  to  be 
a  double  flitting. 
Once  more  there 
was  diligent 
searching  through 
the  countryside 
for  a  desirable 
farm  —  rewarded 

at  length  by  the  discovery  of  Scotsbrig,  which  was 
to  remain  the  family  home  for  the  rest  of  Carlyle's 
life.  Scotsbrig  is  so  closely  interwoven  with  the 
history  of  his  books  that  his  word-pictures  of  the 
place,  both  in  anticipation  and  realisation,  deserve 
to  be  added  to  that  provided  by  the  camera.  In 
anticipation  he  wrote  to  his  brother  John :  — 

"  By  dint  of  unbounded  higgling,  and  the  most 
consummate  diplomacy,  the  point  was  achieved 

295 


SCOTSBHIG 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

to  complete  satisfaction  of  the  two  husbandmen 
[Carlyle's  father  and  Alick] ;  and  Scotsbrig,  free 
of  various  '  clogs  and  claims,'  which  they  argued 
away,  obtained  for  a  rent  of  £190  (cheap  as  they 
reckon  it),  in  the  face  of  many  competitors.  .  .  . 
The  people  are  also  to  repair  the  house  effectu- 
ally, to  floor  it  anew,  put  bun-doors  on  it,  new 
windows,  and  so  forth  ;  and  it  seems  it  is  *  an 
excellent  shell  of  a  house  already.'  ...  Our 
mother  declares  that  there  '  is  plenty  of  both 
peats  and  water ; '  others  think  '  the  farm  is  the 
best  in  Middlebie  parishin  ; '  our  father  seems 
to  have  renewed  his  youth  even  as  the  eagle's 
age." 

Two  months  later,  Carlyle  wrote  to  John 
again,  this  time  in  realisation :  "  We  are  all  got 
over  with  whole  bones  to  this  new  country  ;  and 
every  soul  of  us,  our  mother  to  begin  with,  much 
in  love  with  it.  The  house  is  in  bad  order ;  but 
we  hope  to  have  it  soon  repaired ;  and  for  farm- 
ing purposes  it  is  an  excellent  '  shell  of  a  house.' 
Then  we  have  a  linn  with  crags  and  bushes,  and 
a  'fairy  knowe,'  though  no  fairies  that  I  have 
seen  yet ;  and,  cries  our  mother,  abundance  of 
grand  thready  peats,  and  water  from  the  brook, 
and  no  reek,  and  no  Honor  [that  is,  General 

296 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Sharpe]  to  pester  us  !  To  say  nothing,  cries  our 
father,  of  the  eighteen  yeacre  of  the  best  barley 
in  the  country;  and  bog-hay  adds  Alick,  to  fatten 
scores  of  young  beasts  !  In  fact,  making  allow- 
ance for  new-fangledness,  it  is  a  much  better 
place,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  than  any  our  people 
have  yet  been  in ;  and  among  a  far  better  and 
kindlier  sort  of  people." 

Such  was  Scotsbrig  in  1826  ;  and  such  it  re- 
mains to  the  present  day.  Here  Carlyle's  father 
and  mother  lived  for  the  remainder  of  their  days  ; 
and  here  his  brother  James  kept  the  old  home 
together  until  within  a  few  years  of  his  own 
death.  Here,  too,  Carlyle  spent  the  most  of  his 
holidays  ;  for  even  after  he  became  famous,  and 
could  have  passed  those  holidays  in  the  homes  of 
the  greatest  in  the  land,  he  generally  elected  to 
spend  his  days  of  rest  among  his  own  kindred, 
in  this  unpretentious  but  peaceful  home.  It  is 
well  known  that  Carlyle  suffered  severely  in 
writing  his  books.  Most  authors  do.  No  book 
that  is  worth  writing  is  written  without  a  great 
expenditure  of  nervous  and  mental  force.  George 
Eliot  said  of  "  Romola,"  that  she  began  it  a 
young  woman,  but  finished  it  an  old  woman.  It 
was  so  with  Carlyle.  When  he  had  finished  a 
book,  he  felt  completely  prostrate,  and  to  recover 

297 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

strength  and  spirit  again  he  generally  fled  to 
Scotsbrig.  What  Virgil  did  for  Dante  at  the 
foot  of  Purgatory,  Scotsbrig  did  for  Carlyle  when 
he  emerged  from  the  inferno  into  which  his 
books  plunged  him  ;  the  dews  of  homely  affection 
washed  away  from  his  spirit  those  sombre  hues 
which  settled  so  thickly  upon  him  as  he  wrestled 
with  those  grim  thoughts  of  the  underworld  to 
which  his  genius  led  him. 

Before  visiting  the  Ecclefechan  district,  I  was 
under  the  impression  that  Carlyle's  country  was 
bleak  and  bare.  Nothing  could  be  farther 
from  the  truth.  Although  Mainhill  is  the  least 
attractive  of  his  early  homes,  the  surrounding 
scenery  and  the  view  from  the  farmhouse  more 
than  compensate  for  the  lack  of  beauty  in  its 
immediate  environments.  Scotsbrig  is  as  pictur- 
esque a  retreat  as  the  most  impassioned  lover  of 
nature  could  desire ;  and  the  road  thither  from 
Ecclefechan  leads  the  pilgrim  alluringly  onward 
between  luxurious  hedgerows  and  flower-covered 
banks.  Hoddam  Hill,  as  we  have  seen,  greatly 
pleased  even  Carlyle ;  and  there  could  be  no 
more  eloquent  testimony  in  its  favour.  Set 
on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  amid  richly  wooded 
scenery,  it  commands  a  view  of  verdant  country 
unrivalled  in  any  part  of  the  British  Isles.  First 

298 


THE   "  KIND  BEECH  Rows  OF  ECCLEFECHAN  " 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  eye  sweeps  over  a  rich  belt  of  land  to  the 
shores  of  the  Solway,  then,  crossing  its  waters, 
rests  upon  the  plains  of  Cumberland,  and  finally 
reaches  the  limit  of  vision  among  the  mountains 
of  Wordsworth's  country. 

The  roads  leading  from  Ecclefechan  toward 
Hoddam  Hill  are  even  more  beautiful  than 
those  which  point  the  way  to  Scotsbrig.  When, 
in  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  Carlyle  describes  the  feel- 
ings which  took  possession  of  his  spirit  as  he 
entered  Annan  for  the  first  time  to  attend  school 
there,  it  seemed  to  him  an  added  source  of  sor- 
row that  the  "kind  beech  rows  of  Entepfuhl 
[that  is,  Ecclefechan]  were  hidden  in  the  distance." 
He  had  passed  between  those  beech  rows  on  that 
memorable  Whitsuntide  walk ;  and  blinded  in- 
deed would  the  eyes  be  of  a  man  or  youth  who 
could  walk  through  such  avenues  with  indiffer- 
ence. These  scenes  were  not  lost  on  Carlyle. 
Annandale  has  had  its  influence  on  his  most 
characteristic  book ;  for  no  man  can  appreciate 
the  essential  poetry  of  "Sartor  Resartus"  until 
he  has  visited  the  Ecclefechan  district.  There  is 
an  inexplicable  charm  about  that  countryside, 
which  Carlyle  has  caught  arid  perpetuated  in  his 
pages,  a  charm  which  is  totally  independent  of  the 
strain  of  thought  running  through  the  volume. 

301 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

As  is  too  common  in  Scotland,  a  poor  mini- 
mum of  care  seems  to  be  bestowed  upon  the 
God's  acre  where  Carlyle  and  his  kindred  lie 
quiet  in  death.  Surrounded  by  a  rude  and  bare 
stone  wall,  entered  through  an  unlovely  iron 
gate,  the  graves  in  general  speak  eloquently  of 
the  forgetfulness  of  human  sorrow. 

"  Headstone  and  half-sunk  footstone  lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brick-work  promised  by  and  by  ; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date  !  " 

The  Carlyle  grave  is  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
Inside  the  high  iron  railing  that  surrounds  it, 
perpetuating  the  Carlyle  aloofness  even  in  death, 
the  grass  is  closely  cut ;  and  daisies  are  the  only 
weeds  allowed  to  grow  there.  There  are  three 
graves  within  the  enclosure,  Carlyle  being  buried 
in  the  centre.  In  the  grave  to  the  left  sleep  his 
father  and  mother,  and  two  of  his  sisters ;  also 
his  father's  wife  by  his  first  marriage.  The  final 
sentence  of  the  inscription  was  written  by  Car- 
lyle. 

"  Erected  to  the 
Memory  of  Jannet  Carlyle, 
Spouse  to  James  Carlyle,  mas- 
on in  Ecclefechan,  who  died 
the  llth  Septr  1792  in  the  25th 
year  of  her  age. 
302 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Also  Jannet  Carlyle,  daughter  to 

James  Carlyle  and  Margaret  Aitken. 

She  died  at  Ecclefechan  Jan.  27th,  1801  ; 

aged  17  months.     Also  Margaret 
their  daughter,  she  died  June  22nd  1830 

aged  27  years  —  And  the  above 

James  Carlyle,  born  at  Brownknowe 

in  Augt.  1758,  died  at  Scotsbrig  on  the 

23rd  Jany  1832,  and  now  also  rests  here. 

And  here  also  now  rests  the  above 
Margaret  Aitken,  his  second  wife.     Born  at 

Whitestanes,  Kirkmahoe,  in 

Septr.  1771  ;  died  at  Scotsbrig, 

On  Christmas  day  1853.     She  brought 

him  nine  children  ;  whereof  four 

sons  and  three  daughters  survived 

gratefully  reverent  of  such 

a  Father,  and  such  a  Mother." 

Carlyle's  reminiscences  of  his  father  and  the 
reflections  which  he  penned  in  his  journal  on  his 
mother's  death  prove  what  a  wealth  of  affection 
he  bore  toward  his  parents.  Mr.  Froude  testi- 
fies :  "  The  strongest  personal  passion  which  he 
experienced  through  all  his  life  was  his  affection 
for  his  mother."  "  Mother,"  he  said  to  her  when 
he  removed  to  London,  "  Mother,  you  shall  see 
me  once  yearly,  and  regularly  hear  from  me,  while 
we  live."  He  kept  his  promise  ;  and  even  when 
death  claimed  his  mother  for  his  own  he  never 
visited  Ecclefechan  without  going  to  her  grave. 
A  native  of  the  village  told  me  that,  going  late 
one  summer  evening  into  the  churchyard,  he 

303 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

saw  an  aged  man  lying  prostrate  on  Margaret 
Aitken's  grave.     It  was  Thomas  Carlyle. 

The  grave  to  the  right  is  that  of  Carlyle's 
brother  James,  of  whom  many  characteristic 
and  Carlylean  stories  were  told  me.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent  he  appears  to  have  shared  the  old 
roadman's  opinions  of  his  famous  brother's  work, 
or  at  least  to  have  been  indifferent  to  immortal 
achievements  in  the  realm  of  literature.  He 
was  met  one  day  in  the  village  by  a  party  of 
American  pilgrims,  who,  ignorant  of  his  identity, 
asked  of  him  the  whereabouts  of  Carlyle's  grave. 
"  Which  Carlyle  ? "  "  Oh,  the  great  Carlyle, 
Thomas  Carlyle."  With  unmoved  face  he  gave 
the  information  asked,  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
fine  outburst  of  hero-worship.  "  We  have  come 
all  the  way  from  America,"  said  the  spokesman 
of  the  pilgrims,  "  to  lay  this  wreath  on  our  great 
teacher's  grave."  "  Ha  ! "  rejoined  he,  still  un- 
moved, "  it 's  a  gey  harmless  occupation ! "  Again, 
at  some  meeting  of  the  farmers  in  the  district, 
the  rent  day  probably,  a  dinner  was  given,  and 
some  long-winded  yeoman  said  grace  before  the 
meal.  Jamie  listened  through  it  patiently,  then 
saluted  his  over-unctuous  neighbour  with  the  re- 
mark, "  A  vera  guid  blessing,  Wullie,  but  ye  Ve 
spoilt  the  soup." 

304 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

No  lies  are  told  on  Carlyle's  tombstone.     The 
inscription  is   simple  and   laconic.     The  family 


CARLYLE'S  GRAVE 

crest,  two  wyverns,  the  family  motto,  Hujnilitate, 
and  then  these  words  :  — 

20  305 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  Here  rests  Thomas  Carlyle,  who  was  born  at  Ecclefechan, 
4th  December,  1795,  and  died  at  24  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea, 
London,  on  Saturday,  5th  February,  1881." 

That  is  all ;  and  yet  it  is  enough.  There  are  two 
significant,  pregnant  words,  Humititate,  Rests. 
To  the  student  of  Carlyle  they  will  preach  deeper 
meanings  than  a  Johnsonian  epitaph.  Whether 
the  result  of  choice  or  accident,  there  is  a  singular 
appropriateness  in  John  Carlyle  sharing  the  grave 
of  his  illustrious  brother.  They  had  common 
aims  in  life  ;  they  will  both  live  in  literature,  and 
in  their  death  they  are  not  divided. 

In  his  reminiscences  of  his  father,  and  in  the 
rough  notes  he  made  of  family  history,  Carlyle 
is  at  great  pains  to  forestall  any  unfavourable 
criticism  of  his  kindred.  In  such  Annandale 
quarrels  as  the  Carlyles  mingled,  they  were 
not,  he  says,  aggressive ;  their  contentions  were 
only  "  manful  assertions  of  man's  rights  against 
men  that  would  infringe  them."  But  there  is  a 
difference  between  family  history  written  sub- 
jectively and  the  same  history  written  objec- 
tively. For  example,  when  the  Carlyles  were 
at  work  upon  some  building  they  occasionally 
diverted  themselves  by  splashing  wet  lime  upon 
a  hapless  passer-by ;  and  if  he  threatened  repri- 
sals they  coolly  warned  him  that  "  he  needna 

306 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

try,  for  it  wasna  ane  o'  them  he  would  hae  to 
fash,  but  the  hail  lot  o'  them !  "  Several  such 
instances  are  authenticated,  and  the  Carlyles  are 
said  to  have  paid  special  attentions  of  this  sort 
to  any  pedestrian  who  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
better  dressed  than  themselves.  Mr.  Froude, 
who  was  charitable,  wrote  me  that  he  never  heard 
this  story,  and  that  if  true,  there  must  be  another 
side  to  it.  "  They  were  a  proud  race,"  he  added, 
"  too  proud  to  go  into  paltry  impertinences  ;  but 
I  can  believe  that  in  other  ways  they  may  have 
given  endless  offence." 

There  are  many  magnets  which  attract  the 
literary  pilgrim  to  Chelsea.  In  St.  Luke's  rec- 
tory Charles  Kingsley  spent  several  years  of  his 
boyhood  ;  a  cottage  in  Cheyne  Walk  witnessed 
the  gloomy  sunset  of  Turner's  life ;  Upper  Cheyne 
Row  provided  a  home  for  a  time  for  the  thriftless 
household  of  Leigh  Hunt ;  and  two  of  the  stately 
houses  which  front  the  river  Thames  are  linked 
with  the  lives  of  Rossetti  and  George  Eliot. 
But  it  is  in  no  disparagement  of  these  other  im- 
mortals that  the  shrine  which  is  first  sought  is 
No.  24  Cheyne  Row. 

Once  Carlyle  settled  down  in  London  he  did 
not  flit  from  house  to  house  as  so  many  other 
famous  writers  have  done.  Perhaps  that  was 

307 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


owing  partly  to  the  care  he  expended  in  search- 
ing for  a  suitable  home.  He  travelled  many 
miles  on  that  search ;  walked  hither  and  thither 
until  his  feet  were  lamed  under  him.  At  length 

his  good  fortune 
led  him  to  Chelsea, 
and  the  house  he 
chose  there  shel- 
tered him  for  the 
rest  of  his  days. 
"We  lie  safe  at  a 
bend  of  the  river," 
he  wrote  to  his 
anxious  mother, 
"  away  from  all  the 
great  roads,  have 
air  and  quiet 
hardly  inferior  to 
Craigenputtoch,  an 
outlook  from  the 
back  windows  into  mere  leafy  regions,  with  here 
and  there  a  red  high-peaked  old  roof  looking 
through  ;  and  see  nothing  of  London,  except  by 
day  the  summits  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  and  by  night  the  gleam  of 
the  great  Babylon  affronting  the  peaceful  skies." 
When  Carlyle  took  possession  of  the  house  in 

308 


CARLYLE'S  LONDON   HOME 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Cheyne  Row  it  consisted  of  three  floors  and  a 
half-sunk  basement,  and  the  rent  he  paid  was 
but  £35 !  Some  years  ago  it  was  announced  as 
"  To  Let,"  and  whoso  inquired  the  rent  found 
that  the  figure  had  risen  to  £90.  But  now  not 
even  £90  a  year  could  secure  it,  for  the  building 
has  properly  passed  into  the  possession  of  the 
Nation,  and  will  be  carefully  preserved  to  receive 
the  homage  of  generations  yet  unborn.  It  is  full 
of  Carlyle  relics,  but  to  the  seeing  eye  it  is  even 
more  peopled  with  the  shades  of  those  sons  and 
daughters  of  fame  who  have  gathered  within 
its  walls. 

Here,  as  in  Scotland,  where  no  adequate  me- 
morial of  Carlyle  is  to  be  found,  the  wise  disciple 
of  such  a  teacher  comforts  himself  with  these 
words :  "  For  giving  his  soul  to  the  common 
cause,  he  has  won  for  himself  a  wreath  which 
will  not  fade  and  a  tomb  the  most  honorable, 
not  where  his  dust  is  decaying,  but  where  his 
glory  lives  in  everlasting  remembrance.  For  of 
illustrious  men  all  the  earth  is  the  sepulchre,  and 
it  is  not  the  inscribed  column  in  their  own  land 
which  is  the  record  of  their  virtues,  but  the  un- 
written memory  of  them  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  all  mankind." 


309 


X 

THOMAS    HOOD'S 
HOMES    AND    FRIENDS 


X 

THOMAS   HOOD'S   HOMES   AND   FRIENDS 

"  Jealous,  I  own  it,  I  was  once  — 
That  wickedness  I  here  renounce. 
I  tried  at  wit  —  it  would  not  do  ; 
At  tenderness —  that  failed  me  too. 
Before  me  on  each  path  there  stood 
The  witty  and  the  tender  Hood  !  " 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOH. 

HUMOUR  and  Pathos  linked  their  hands  across 
the  cradle  of  Thomas  Hood  to  vow  him  for  their 
own.  And  he  was  theirs  till  death.  Over  the 
events  of  his  life,  or  the  creations  of  his  brain, 
that  joint  possession  never  slackened  its  hold  for 
an  hour.  If,  to  visible  seeming,  Pathos  holds 
supremacy  to-day  in  the  suffering  of  the  poet's 
body,  Humour  claims  the  guidance  of  his  muse ;  if 
to-morrowT  Humour  should  irradiate  his  outward 
life  with  laughter,  we  may  be  sure  that  Pathos 
will  cast  its  shadow  within.  Tears  and  laughter 
are  never  far  apart  in  that  strangely  mingled  life. 
Behind  the  smile  there  is  a  thinly  veiled  sadness  ; 
through  the  tears  there  comes  a  gleam  of  mirth. 

313 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


• 


It  was  a  dual  life  he  lived,  an  April  day  of  shine 
and  shadow. 

Hood  once  paid  a  visit  to  Ham  House,  which 
nestles  so  picturesquely  among   stately  elms  at 

the  foot  of  Rich- 
mond Hill,  and 
within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  "  sil- 
ver streaming 
Thames."  It  was 
summer-time,  and 
the  historic  man- 
sion and  its  famous 
avenue  looked 
their  best.  But 
that  visit  was  re- 
sponsible for  the 
creation  of  "  The 
Elm-Tree."  Hood 
saw  nothing  of  the 
bright  sunshine, 
heard  nothing  of  the  songs  of  birds,  or  rather,  he 
saw  and  heard  them,  and  saw  and  heard  beyond 
them.  As  he  wandered  down  those  avenues  of 
loftly  elms  he  caught  no  bird  melody,  but  a  "  sad 
and  solemn  sound  "  filled  his  ears,  which  seemed 
now  to  murmur  amid  the  leaves  over  his  head, 

314 


ELM-TREE  AVENUE,  HAM  HOUSE 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

and  anon  to  rise  from  the  greensward  beneath 
his  feet.  It  was  not  the  wind  sighing  amid  the 
branches,  nor  the  squirrel  rustling  the  leaves  in 
its  happy  gambols  from  bough  to  bough,  nor  any 
Dryad  making  the  forest  voluble  as  in  the  olden 
time :  — 

"  But  still  the  sound  was  in  my  ear, 

A  sad  and  solemn  sound, 
That  sometimes  murmured  overhead, 
And  sometimes  underground." 

As  the  poet  heard  not  the  birds  so  he  saw  not 
the  sunshine,  but  in  the  stead  of  golden  shafts  of 
light  in  that  shady  avenue,  his  eyes  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  Spectre  of  Death,  standing  by 
a  sturdy  elm  fresh  felled  by  the  woodman's  axe. 
And  he  heard  death  speak,  and  he  knew  then  the 
cause  of  the  mysterious  murmur :  — 

"  This  massy  trunk  that  lies  along, 
And  many  more  must  fall  — 
For  the  very  knave 
Who  digs  the  grave, 
The  man  who  spreads  the  pall, 
And  he  who  tolls  the  funeral  bell, 
The  Elm  shall  have  them  all!  " 

Where  other  eyes  had  seen  an  elm  tree,  verdant 
with  vigorous  life,  the  haven  of  birds,  the  play- 
ground of  squirrels,  Hood  had  seen  —  a  coffin ! 

315 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

Has  any  other  poet  so  pierced  through  the  smil- 
ing mask  of  nature  to  the  symbol  of  human 
sadness  hidden  behind  ? 

Again,  when  life  was  nearing  its  close  and  his 
body  was  wasted  with  disease  and  racked  with 
pain,  the  poet  paused  from  his  work  one  day  to 
write  letters  to  the  three  children  of  his  devoted 
physician,  Dr.  Elliot,  who  were  spending  a  holiday 
by  the  sea.  There  are  no  more  delightful  letters 
to  children  in  English  literature.  Hood  knew 
the  measure  of  the  child-mind  to  a  fraction,  and 
had  full  command  of  the  reasoned  nonsense  which 
Lewis  Carroll  has  made  so  popular  since.  But 
mingling  with  the  boisterous  fun  of  these  de- 
lightful letters  there  are  gentle  sighs  of  sadness, 
all  too  gentle,  one  is  happy  to  think,  to  have  been 
detected  by  the  bright  young  spirits  to  whom 
the  letters  were  addressed.  What  child  could 
catch  the  undercurrent  of  pathos  in  such  sentences 
as  these  :  — 

"  I  wish  there  were  such  nice  green  hills  here  as 
there  are  at  Sandgate.  They  must  be  very  nice  to 
roll  down,  especially  if  there  are  no  furze-bushes 
to  prickle  one,  at  the  bottom  !  Do  you  remember 
how  the  thorns  stuck  in  us  like  a  penn'orth  of 
mixed  pins,  at  Wanstead  ?  I  have  been  very  ill, 

316 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

and  am  so  thin  now  I  could  stick  myself  into  a 
prickle.  My  legs,  in  particular,  are  so  wasted 
away  that  somebody  says  my  pins  are  only 
needles ;  and  I  am  so  weak  I  dare  say  you  could 
push  me  down  on  the  floor  and  right  through  the 
carpet,  unless  it  was  a  strong  pattern.  I  am  sure 
if  I  were  at  Sandgate  you  could  carry  me  to  the 
post-office  and  fetch  my  letters.  .  .  . 

"  There  are  no  flowers,  I  suppose,  on  the  beach, 
or  I  would  ask  you  to  bring  me  a  bouquet,  as 
you  used  at  Stratford.  But  there  are  little  crabs  1 
If  you  would  catch  one  for  me,  and  teach  it  to 
dance  the  Polka,  it  would  make  me  quite  happy ; 
for  I  have  not  had  any  toys  or  playthings  for  a 
long  time." 

Humour  and  Pathos,  too,  mingle  themselves  in 
one  of  the  latest  sketches  Hood  drew  for  his  own 
magazine.  Prevented  by  a  severe  illness  from 
keeping  faith  with  his  readers,  he  ventured  to 
express  his  regrets  by  the  pencil  instead  of  the 
pen,  and  in  his  sick-bed  drawing  the  title  of  his 
magazine  is  symbolised  by  a  magpie  wearing  a 
hood,  while  the  "Editor's  Apologies"  comprise 
a  significant  group  of  medicine  bottles,  a  dish 
of  leeches,  and  the  picture  of  a  heart  with  a  line 
encircling  it  —  typical  of  the  enlarged  heart  from 

317 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

which  he  was  dying.     Thus,  to  the  end,  Hood 
was  faithful  to  his  own  creed :  — 

"  There  is  no  music  in  the  life 

That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely ; 
There 's  not  a  string  attuned  to  mirth, 
But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy." 

On  the  poet's  monument,  in  Kensal  Green 
Cemetery,  the  date  of  his  birth  is  given  as  23d 
May,  1798,  but  in  several  biographies  that  event 
is  stated  to  have  taken  place  a  year  later.  His 
own  children  appear  to  have  been  doubtful  on 
this  point,  for  his  daughter,  in  her  "  Memorials," 
gives  the  later  year  on  no  surer  authority  than 
"  as  far  as  we  trace."  Henceforth,  however,  the 
exact  date  of  Hood's  birth  need  be  no  longer  a 
matter  of  uncertainty,  for  here  is  a  verbatim  copy 
of  his  natal  certificate  :  — 

"  These  are  to  certify,  that  Thomas  Hood,  son 
of  Thomas  Hood  and  Elizabeth  Hood  his  wife, 
who  was  Daughter  of  James  Sands,  was  Born  in 
the  Poultry,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Mildred,  in  the 
City  of  London,  the  Twenty-third  Day  of  May, 
in  the  Year  One  thousand  Seven  hundred  and 
Ninety-nine,  at  whose  Birth  we  were  present. 

"  RUTH  SANDS. 

"JANE  CURLEE. 

318 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  Registered  at  Dr.  William's  Library,  Red- 
cross-street,  near  Cripplegate,  London. 

"  THOMAS  MORGAN,  Registrar. 
"  Nov.  27th,  1817." 


F     No.  .C)09  '••«>*' 

.._  HHHESE  are  to  certify;  *That,  <$4g?£**  <&C*&#?3!( 
.  •-*•         </e~-.-  «f       &Ji»~>~~*     ^Si+ji-eCl'*'-- "*<*'; 


of 
his  Wife,  *who  was  BWgWer  of 

,        in  the  Parish  of »    •^f-.^^ic^(2a'^oiff.: 
in  the  C  >^^7         -    °f  ^—^^^^x--'     •   .      the 

Day  of  c/rte&f;     Jn  the  Y$*rcrfvt~>  %£*-*!*? A 
at  whose  Bit 


•Registrar. 

B«h  the  above,  should  be  signed  by  two  or  more  Per$ons,rwho  were  present  W  the  Birth  4 
and,  if  such  Witnesses  cannot  write,  their  Marks  snould--be  attested  by  two  credible  Person*. 
The  Date  of  the  Birth  ihoiild-be  in  Words  at  i-engih,  and  not  in  Figures.  ] 

N.-B.  Attendance  •{.. the  Library  every  "Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  and  'Friday, 
>etween  the  Honn  of  Ten  in  the  Morning  «nd  Three  in  the  Afternoon  ;  except  during  *be 
Honthof  August,  and  the  Whitsun  and  Christmas  Weeks,  when  the  Library  U«hut  up. 

fruitcJ  bf  S.  CoBckrair,  Thrcjia^nom-Slrtf, 


The  original  of  this  interesting  document  was 
in  the  possession  of  the  late  Mr.  Towneley  Green, 
R.  I.,  whose  mother  was  a  sister  of  Thomas 
Hood's  wife.  It  is  to  the  same  eminent  artist's 
kindness  that  I  am  indebted  for  permission  to 
use  those  extracts  from  some  unpublished  letters 

319 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

of  Hood,  which  will  be  found  below.  What 
other  valuable  services  Mr.  Towneley  Green  ren- 
dered me  in  the  preparation  of  these  pages  will 
make  themselves  manifest  from  time  to  time. 
To  return  to  the  birth  certificate  for  a  moment. 
It  will  be  seen  that  this  document  makes  known, 
for  the  first  time,  the  Christian  name  of  Hood's 
maternal  grandfather  (hitherto  his  mother  has 
been  spoken  of  as  the  "  sister  of  Mr.  Robert 
Sands ") ;  that  it  definitely  locates  the  Poultry 
as  the  place  of  his  birth ;  that  one  of  his  aunts 
was  present  at  his  entrance  to  the  wrorld  ;  and 
finally,  that  the  registration  was  effected  more 
than  eighteen  years  after  the  birth  took  place. 
With  regard  to  the  second  fact,  it  is  interesting 
to  know  that  the  building  now  known  as  No.  31, 
Poultry,  stands  upon  the  same  site  as  that  in 
which  the  poet  was  born  over  a  century  ago.  It 
is,  of  course,  impossible  to  explain  the  protracted 
delay  in  the  registration  of  the  birth,  or  why, 
after  eighteen  years,  it  should  have  been  regis- 
tered at  all.  But  a  guess  may  be  hazarded. 
Hood  was  apprenticed  to  his  uncle,  Robert 
Sands,  the  engraver,  and  it  may  be  that  the  regis- 
tration of  his  birth  is  connected  with  that  event. 
Thomas  Hood  attained  his  majority  without 
achieving  any  definite  connection  with  literature, 

320 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

but  his  son  ought  not  to  have  lent  his  authority 
to  the  assertion  that  prior  to  1821  his  father 
"had  displayed  no  strong  literary  tendencies." 
During  his  visit  to  Dundee,  in  search  of  health, 
which  lasted,  there  are  sound  reasons  for  believ- 
ing, from  December,  1814,  to  some  time  in  1817, 
he  had  written  a  large  quantity  of  verse,  and  his 
connection  on  his  return  to  London,  with  the 
"  private  select  Literary  Society,"  of  the  "  Rem- 
iniscences," kept  him  busy  with  his  pen.  In  short, 
Hood  did  not  enter  the  world  of  letters  until 
after  he  had  served  a  long  apprenticeship  to  the 
pen.  This  is  made  clear  by  a  letter  (unknown  to 
his  daughter  when  she  compiled  the  "  Memo- 
rials ")  he  wrote  in  1820  to  a  Scottish  correspond- 
ent, who  had  written  to  offer  profuse  apologies 
for  having  lost  the  manuscript  of  Hood's  rhymed 
"  Dundee  Guide." 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  for  your  comfort,  that 
the  loss,  if  even  great,  would  not  be  irreparable, 
for  I  could,  if  necessary,  write  afresh  from  memory 
and  nearly  verbatim.  It  is  the  same  with  nearly 
all  the  rest  of  my  effusions,  some  of  which  I  shall 
hereafter  send  for  your  perusal,  to  show  you  that 
I  do  not  consider  you  the  '  careless  friend '  you 
represent  yourself  to  be.  I  continue  to  receive 

21  321 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

much  pleasure  from  our  literary  society,  and 
from  my  own  pursuits  in  that  way,  in  which, 
considering  my  little  time,  I  am  very  industrious  ; 
that  is  to  say,  I  spoil  a  deal  of  paper.  My  last 
is  a  mock  heroic  love-tale  of  600  lines,  with  notes 
critical  and  explanatory,  which  I  lately  finished 
after  many  intervals,  independent  of  two  poetical 
addresses  to  the  society  on  closing  and  opening 
a  fresh  session,  with  various  pieces,  chiefly  ama- 
tory. .  .  . 

"  I  find  I  shall  not  be  able  to  send  my  poems 
to  you  for  some  time,  as  they  are  in  the  hands  of 
an  intelligent  bookseller,  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
wishes  to  look  them  over.  He  says  that  they 
are  worth  publishing,  but  I  doubt  very  much  if 
he  would  give  me  any  proof  of  his  opinion,  or  1 
should  indulge  in  the  hope  of  sending  them  to 
you  in  a  more  durable  shape." 

These  passages  prove,  beyond  question,  that 
when,  on  the  tragic  death  of  John  Scott,  in 
1821,  the  "London  Magazine"  became  the  prop- 
erty of  Messrs.  Taylor  and  Hessey,  and  those 
gentlemen  enlisted  the  services  of  Thomas  Hood 
as  sub-editor  of  its  pages,  the  young  engraver  was 
amply  qualified  to  throw  aside  his  etching-tools 
in  favour  of  the  pen.  At  first  his  duties  appear 

322 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

to  have  been  little  more  than  those  of  a  superior 
proof-reader,  but  ere  long  he  began  inventing 
facetious  "  Answers  to  Correspondents,"  and  in  a 
short  time  he  took  an  established  place  among 
the  contributors  to  the  magazine.  It  was  a  fa- 
mous circle  into  which  he  thus  gained  admittance, 
and  in  Taylor's  dining-room,  at  93,  Fleet  Street, 
with  its  windows  overlooking  St.  Bride's  Church- 
yard, Hood  often  shared  in  such  merriment  as 
could  only  have  been  created  in  gatherings  which 
included  such  spirits  as  Elia,  Allan  Cunningham, 
Barry  Cornwall,  Horace  Smith,  John  Clare,  and 
John  Hamilton  Reynolds.  With  two  of  that 
illustrious  band,  Hood  was  destined  to  enjoy  an 
affectionate  history.  The  gentle  Elia  quickly 
appealed  to  his  heart,  and  the  depth  of  his  feel- 
ing for  him  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that 
of  the  two  portraits  which  accompanied  Hood 
in  all  his  wanderings  and  changes,  one  was  that 
of  Charles  Lamb.  The  other  member  of  the 
"  London  Magazine  "  circle  to  enter  into  close 
companionship  with  Hood  was  John  Hamilton 
Reynolds.  It  was  no  doubt  profitable  for  Hood 
to  enter  into  such  relationship  with  Reynolds, 
apart  from  the  fact  that  the  friendship  culminated 
in  his  marriage  with  his  sister,  Jane  Reynolds. 
Keats  himself  was  often  indebted  to  the  fine  lit- 

323 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

erary  instinct  of  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  and 
it  is  highly  probable  that  Hood  also  reaped  ma- 
terial advantage  in  the  same  direction.  Keats 
and  Reynolds  contemplated  collaboration  in  a 
volume  of  poems ;  Hood  and  Reynolds  carried 
such  a  scheme  to  fruition.  Hence  the  volume 
of  "  Odes  and  Addresses  to  Great  People,"  which 
Coleridge  so  confidently  attributed  to  Lamb,  and 
of  which,  while  still  in  the  making,  Hood  wrote 
to  Reynolds :  "I  think  the  thing  is  likely  to  be 
a  hit,  but  if  you  do  some  I  shall  expect  it  to 
run  like  wild-fire." 

Unhappily,  this  promising  friendship  did  not 
survive  till  that  final  severance  which  ends  all 
friendships.  The  two  quarrelled,  but  why  they 
quarrelled  will  never  be  known.  Neither  of  the 
children  of  Hood  nor  his  other  close  relatives 
knew  how  the  estrangement  came  about.  Nor  is 
it  known  when  the  rupture  took  place  ;  all  that  is 
certain  is  that  it  was  subsequent  to  Hood's  mar- 
riage with  Jane  Reynolds,  and  also  subsequent 
to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds's  own  marriage  with 
Miss  Drew.  That  the  latter  was  the  case  is 
proved  by  a  document  in  Hood's  writing  among 
the  unpublished  papers  of  Mr.  Towneley  Green. 
This  is  a  humorous  account  of  Reynolds's  wed- 
ding, drawn  up  in  the  form  of  a  State  procession, 

324 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

and  it  provides  another  illustration  of  the  lively 
spirit  with  which  Hood  was  wont  to  celebrate 
all  important  family  occasions.  Here  it  is  : 

A  Progress  from  London  to  Wedlock  through  Exeter 

PEOPLK  OF  EXETEB  WITH  BANNERS 

GLOVERS 
HONOURABLE   COMPANY   OF   MATCH    MAKERS 

BANNER 

BEADLE  WITH   HIS   BANNER 

HYMEN  AND  AMEN  WITH   THEIR  BANNERS 

1ST,  2ND,  AND  3RD  TIMES  OF  ASKING  WITH  THEIR  AXES 

PAGE  BEARING  THE  MATRIMONIAL  YOKE  WITH  THE  MILK  OF  HUMAN 

KINDNESS 

THE   HAPPY  PAIR! 

BANNERS,   MUTUAL  BENEFIT,   HAND-IN-HAND,  AND  UNION,  WITH  THE 

SWEET  LITTLE  CHERUB  THAT  SITS  UP  ALOFT 
DOMESTIC   HABITS   IN   LIVERY,   ATTENDED  BY  DOMESTIC   COMFORT 

BANNER 

CABMEN   NUPTIALE 
CUPID   WITH   THE   RING 
EDITOR  WITH  HIS  STAFF 

MESSRS.  TAYLOR  AND  HESSEY,  ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM,  RICHARD  WOOD- 
HOUSE,  THEODORE,  W.  HAZLITT,  H.  CARY,  C.  VINKBOOMS,  JAMES 
WEATHERCOCK,  THOS.  DE  QUINCEY,  W.  HILTON,  C.  LAMB  AS  DIDDLE 
DIDDLE  DUMPKINS  WITH  ONE  SHOE  OFF  AND  ONE  SHOE  ON,  AND  HIS 
MAN,  JOHN  CLARE;  J.  RICE,  W.  PROCTOR,  MR.  RILEY-PABKEE.  THE 
LAMB  FLAGS  CARRIED  BY  MR.  MONTGOMERY 

LION'S   HEAD  WITH  HIS  TWO  PAGES 

PLACARD    "  THE    HEAD    OF   THE   FAMILY  " 

MR.   AND   MBS.   REYNOLDS   AND   MRS.   BUTLEB 

TBAIN  BEARERS 
CUPIDS   IN   LIVERY 

325 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

BANNER:     THE  FAMILY  CREST 
THE   THREE   MISS    REYNOLDS 

TRAINBEARERS 

BANNER:     CUPID   WITH   A   WHITE   BOW 
THREE  GENTLEMEN  AFTER  THE  THREE   MISS   REYNOLDS 

PLACARD  :    "  THE  BRIDE'S   CHARACTER  " 

FRIENDS:    MUSICIANS:    A   BLIND  BARD,  HARPING  ON  ONE   STRING 

WIND  INSTRUMENTS,   "PIPING  TO  THE  SPIRIT  DITTIES  OF  NO  TONE," 

ETC.,  ETC. 

BANNER 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  EXETER 

It  was,  of  course,  in  the  family  home  of  his 
friend  Reynolds  that  Hood  met  his  future  wife, 
Jane  Reynolds.  The  family  lived  in  Little 
Britain  in  one  of  the  "  Master's  houses,"  as  those 
buildings  were  called  which  were  devoted  to  the 
use  of  the  tutors  of  Christ's  Hospital  near  by. 
The  father  was  Writing  and  Mathematical  Mas- 
ter in  that  famous  school,  and  he  and  his  wife 
and  children  were  evidently  friends  and  abettors 
of  all  those  who  found  their  chief  pleasure  in 
literature ;  Keats  and  Lamb  were  frequent  visi- 
tors, and  many  lesser  lights  in  the  early  nine- 
teenth-century world  of  letters  were  often  found 
under  that  congenial  roof  in  Little  Britain. 
Mrs.  Reynolds  herself  was  possessed  of  fine  lit- 
erary instincts,  and  in  1827  she  published,  under 
the  pen-name  of  "  Mrs.  Hamerton  "  a  delightful 
little  tale  bearing  the  title  of  "Mrs.  Leslie  and 

326 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

her  Grandchildren."  A  copy  of  this  rare  volume 
was  in  the  library  of  Mr.  Towneley  Green,  and 
on  its  half-title  page  there  is  pasted  a  brief 
extract  of  a  letter  from  Lamb  to  Hood.  The 
extract  reads  thus  :  — 

"  DEAR  H.  —  Emma  has  a  favour,  besides  a 
bed,  to  ask  of  Mrs.  Hood.  Your  parcel  was 
gratifying.  We  have  all  been  pleased  with  Mrs. 
Leslie:  I  speak  it  most  sincerely.  There  is 
much  manly  sense  with  a  feminine  expression, 
which  is  my  definition  of  ladies'  writing." 

Hood's  wooing  of  Jane  Reynolds  appears  to 
have  met  with  some  opposition  from  within  the 
Little  Britain  family  circle,  but  the  young  poet 
evidently  had  a  zealous  advocate  in  the  person  of 
his  betrothed's  mother.  The  following  hitherto 
unpublished  letter  from  Hood  to  Mrs.  Reynolds 
witnesses  to  a  warm  spirit  of  affection  between 
the  two.  The  date  of  the  letter  is  uncertain. 

"  LOWER  STREET 
"  ISLINGTON. 

"  MY  DEAREST  MOTHER,  —  I  was  to  have 
written  to  you  yesterday  evening,  but  my  hand 
was  so  tired  with  transcribing  all  the  morning  that 

327 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

I  was  obliged  unwillingly  to  let  it  rest.  I  do  not 
know  how  I  am  to  put  interest  enough  in  these 
lines  to  repay  you  for  the  long  time  I  have  been 
indebted  for  your  kind  ones ;  I  know  they  were 
written  designedly  to  put  me  in  heart  and  hope, 
and  indeed  they  were  more  than  a  pleasure  to 
me  in  the  midst  of  pain.  They  were  not  only 
kind,  but  enlivened  with  such  smart  and  humor- 
ous conceits  as  might  account  for  some  part  of 
my  difficulty  in  finding  a  reply.  You  know  I  am 
not  used  to  flatter ;  and  if  1  were  to  begin  now, 
Heaven  help  me,  but  you  should  be  the  last 
woman  for  my  experiment.  I  know  you  have 
a  '  smashing  blow '  for  such  butter-moulds. 

"  I  am  a  great  deal  better.  My  hands  are 
now  returned  to  their  natural  size.  From  their 
plumpness  before  with  the  little  nourishment  I 
took,  and  their  afterwards  falling  away,  you 
would  have  thought  I  sustained  myself  like  the 
bears,  by  sucking  my  paws.  I  am  now  on  a 
stouter  diet,  a  Beef-eater,  and  devour  my  ox  by 
instalments  ;  so  provide  yourself  against  I  come. 
I  have  nursed  a  hope  of  seeing  you  on  Sunday. 
It  has  been  one  of  the  greatest  privations  of  my 
illness  to  be  debarred  from  a  presence  so  kind  as 
yours  ;  but  I  trust,  weak  as  I  am,  to  make  my 
bow  at  your  next  drawing-room.  You  know 

328 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

there  is  a  hope  for  everything  ;   your  old  rose- 
tree  has  a  bud  on  it. 

"  I  wish  you  could  patronise  my  garden,  you 
should  walk  about  it  like  Aurora,  and  bedew  the 
young  plants.  It  is  quite  green,  and  the  flowers 
that  were  sown,  are  now  seed  coming  up  from 
the  ground.  I  am  just  going  there  as  soon  as 
I  have  achieved  this  letter.  The  fresh  air  feeds 
me  like  a  chameleon,  and  makes  me  change  the 
colour  of  my  skin  too.  I  shall  need  all  my 
strength  if  you  expect  me  to  come  and  romp 
with  your  grandchild.  My  dear  Jane  writes 
that  owing  to  Mr.  A  eland's  delay,  it  is  likely 
that  they  may  not  come  up  till  the  week  after 
next.  Pray  make  use  of  the  interval  in  double- 
bracing  your  nerves  against  the  tumults  of  '  the 
little  sensible  Longmore.'  She  will  put  you  to 
your  Hop-Tea.  I  expect  she  will  quite  revo- 
lutionise Little  Britain.  The  awful  brow  of 
Mariane,  the  muscular  powers  of  Lottie,  the 
serious  remonstrances  of  Aunt  Jane,  the  ma- 
ternal and  grand-maternal  authorities  will  be  set 
at  nought  with  impunity.  As  for  Green  and  I, 
we  shall  come  up  empty  about  dinner-time,  and  in 
the  hubbub,  be  sent  empty  away.  The  old  china 
will  be  cracked  like  mad  ;  the  tour-terelles,  finger- 
blotted  and  spoiled  ;  the  chintz,  —  now  couleur 

329 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

de  rose — all  rumpled  and  unflounced  !  You  will 
get  some  rest  never ! 

"  I  had  a  note  from  that  unfortunate  youth 
Haley,  on  Sunday.  It  commenced :  '  Saturated 
with  rain,'  as  if  to  show  me  the  use  he  had  made 
of  my  dictionary  ;  and  ended  by  begging  a  trifle 
to  help  him  into  the  99th.  1  played  the  ser- 
geant's part  and  gave  him  a  shilling,  not  from 
any  bounty  of  my  own,  but  because  all  the  girls 
cried  out  upon  me  for  their  parts.  *  They  could 
not  resist  such  entreaties.'  However,  do  not 
blame  me,  for  I  mean  to  cut  him  off  with  it,  and 
be  deaf  to  his  letters  in  the  future. 

"  I  have  been  obliged  to  avail  myself  of  the 
sunshine,  and  wish  I  could  send  you  some  by 
this  letter,  to  sit  in  your  thoughts.  1  hope  you 
dwell  only  on  the  pleasant  ones ;  for,  with  all 
your  cares,  you  must  have  many  such.  Think 
of  your  good  and  clever  daughters,  who  paint 
sea  nymphs,  and  sing,  and  play  on  the  piano ; 
and  of  your  son  John,  dear  to  the  Muses.  I 
think  few  families  have  been  dealt  with  so 
well,  if,  indeed,  any.  There  's  Jane,  and  Eliza, 
Mariane,  and  Lottie,  —  four  Queens;  and  John, 
—  you  must  count  *  two  for  his  nob.'  I  was  glad 
to  hear  that  he  came  to  you,  and  in  such  excel- 
lent tune  and  highly  pleased  with  his  praise  of 

330 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

my  Poem.  It  was  worth  the  commendations  of 
all  a  '  London  Magazine  '  to  me  ;  with  its  Editor 
at  the  head,  or,  if  you  please,  at  the  tail.  Pray 
tell  Mariane  that  I  have  written  a  long,  serious, 
Spanish  story,  trying  not  to  be  more  idle  than  I 
can  help,  which,  as  soon  as  it  is  transcribed,  I  shall 
send  to  her.  I  have  almost  written  some  songs 
for  Lottie,  but  want  rhymes  to  them.  I  have 
never  been  allowed  yet  to  sigh  to  your  '  Willow 
Song '  for  the  Album.  Lambkins  and  Willows 
were  indispensable  to  the  old  songs,  but  I  thought 
such  fleecy-osiery  poetry  went  out  with  Pope. 
I  almost  think  it  a  shame  amongst  all  my  rhym- 
ing that  I  have  never  yet  mused  upon  you  ;  but 
please  God,  you  and  1  mend,  you  shall  adorn  a 
sonnet  yet,  and  if  it  be  worthy  of  you,  I  shall 
think  myself  some  '  Boet,'  as  Handel  used  to  call 
it.  I  might  have  a  much  worse  subject  and  in- 
spiration than  the  recollection  of  your  goodness, 
and  with  that  happy  remembrance  I  will  leave 
off.  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  Mother !  You 
say  you  wonder  how  it  is  I  respect  and  esteem 
you  as  such,  as  if  I  had  not  read  in  you  a  kind- 
ness towards  me,  which  in  such  a  heart  as  yours 
must  always  outrun  its  means  ;  nay,  as  if  in 
thinking  me  worthy  of  one  of  your  excellent 
daughters,  you  have  not  in  all  the  love  and  duty 

331 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

of  a  son  made  me  bounden  to  you  for  ever.  Per- 
haps after  this  you  will  bear  with  my  earnest 
looks  in  knowing  that  they  are  attracted  to  you 
by  a  gratitude  and  affection  which  could  never 
enough  thank  and  bless  you,  if  they  did  not  do 
so  sometimes  silently  and  in  secret. 

"  Pray  distribute  my  kindest  love  amongst  all, 
and  believe  it  my  greatest  happiness  to  join  with 
your  own  in  all  duty,  honour,  and  affection  as 

your  son. 

"  T.  HOOD." 

It  will  be  evident  from  the  above  letter  that 
by  the  time  it  was  written,  Hood  had  become 
perfectly  at  home  in  the  house  at  Little  Britain. 
Indeed,  his  relations  with  all  the  members  of  the 
family  were  of  a  characteristically  affectionate 
nature.  As  may  be  inferred  from  the  letter  just 
quoted,  one  of  the  sisters,  Eliza,  was  already  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Longmore ;  Jane  was  married  to 
Hood  ;  Mariane  was  to  wed  the  Mr.  Green  who 
was  to  share  Hood's  mealless  fate  through  the 
"  hubbub "  over  the  advent  of  the  Longmore 
grandchild  ;  and  Charlotte,  the  subject  of  Hood's 
"  Number  One,"  was  fated  to  die  single.  If  the 
poet  had  a  favourite  among  his  three  sisters-in- 
law,  Mariane  was  undoubtedly  she.  One  of  his 

332 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

letters  to  her  will  make  that  predilection  abun- 
dantly clear.  It  should  be  premised  that  when  it 
was  written  Mariane  Reynolds  was  on  a  visit  to 
her  sister,  Mrs.  Longmore,  at  Chelmsford,  Essex. 

"  LOWER  STREET,  ISLINGTON. 

"  MY  VERY  DEAR  MARIANE,  —  Such  kind 
messages  as  yours  are  irresistible,  and  I  must 
write  again  if  only  to  show  you  that  I  feel  more 
than  repaid  for  my  last  letter.  I  know  that  you 
do  not  like  to  correspond  yourself,  but  it  shall  be 
enough  for  me,  dear,  if  I  may  believe  that  1  am 
not  quite  the  last  person  you  would  write  to. 
Indeed  I  know  that  I  should  not,  if  I  could, 
imagine  how  very  much  I  am  pleased  with 
whatever  you  say  or  do ;  which  is  far  too  much 
to  let  me  become  the  graceless  and  ungrateful 
critic.  But  I  know  that  you  do  not  wrong  me 
by  any  such  fear,  and,  therefore,  till  you  write  to 
others,  and  not  to  me,  I  shall  consider  that  my 
letters  are  answered  by  the  pleasure  they  may 
give  you.  I  am  sure  they  are  not  without 
delight  to  myself,  and  still  more  when  I  learn 
that  you  are  to  keep  them  ;  for  I  know  whatever 
kindnesses  they  may  contain,  that  they  will  never 
be  belied  by  time.  I  might  even  crowd  them 
with  more  affection,  and  still  be  justified,  for  I 

333 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

have  a  thousand  reasons  for  loving  you,  if  you 
were  not  my  dear  Jane's  sister,  which  is  a  thou- 
sand reasons  in  one.  But  I  can  afford  to  waive 
that  for  your  own  sake,  tho'  when  I  remember 
that  I  might  have  had  a  Drew  instead,  I  cannot 
feel  too  happy,  too  proud,  or  too  fond  of  you  in 
that  relation.  I  wish  I  could  but  give  you  a 
tenth  part  of  such  causes  to  make  me  dear  to 
you;  however  it  is  some  merit  to  love  you,  and 
you  must  give  me  the  benefit  of  that  considera- 
tion. Therefore,  dear,  do  store  up  these  letters, 
and  if,  hereafter,  you  should  lack  a  true  wight  to 
do  you  suit  or  service,  let  them  remind  you  of 
the  hand  and  heart  of  a  Brother.  Would  he 
were  as  potent,  as  proud  of  this  title,  for  yours 
and  others'  dear  sake ;  but  it  is  not  the  fault  of 
my  wish  that  I  cannot  make  you  Queen  of  the 
Amaranths,  or  pluck  a  bow  of  green  leaves  and 
turn  them  into  emeralds  for  your  casket. 

"  There  is  a  tale  of  a  little  prince  who  had  a 
ruby  heart,  and  whatever  he  wished  on  it  was 
instantly  granted ;  but  it  is  not  so  with  mine. 
Neither  have  I  Aladdin's  Lamp,  or  it  should 
have  been  scrubbed  bright  ere  the  Chelmsford 
Ball.  But  now  it  is  a  dark  Lanthorn,  and  the 
glory  of  fairyland  is  bedimmed  for  ever.  Only 
the  fiery  dragons  remain,  which  be  cares  many 

334 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

and  fearful ;  and  the  black  cats,  and  the  demons 
and  imps  and  the  ogres,  who  are  the  Booksellers, 
except  that  they  have  no  eye  in  their  foreheads; 
But  I  am  not  writing  King  Obern's  Elegy ;  so 
away  with  this  lament  for  the  little  people,  and 
let 's  think  of  the  living  ! 

"  The  interesting  little  Miss  Kindred  has 
enquired  after  you,  and  you  have  been  missed 
at  Le  Mercier's.  We  met  the  former  at  Mr. 
Butler's  last  night,  and  she  seemed  what  the 
world  would  call  a  sweet  girl,  full  of  sensibility 
and  commerce.  Her  sister,  I  should  think,  has  a 
smack  of  Prudence  Morton.  I  like  her  best,  for 
she  was  absent.  Jane  has  made  a  very  pleasant 
addition  to  her  friendships,  by  her  introduction 
at  another  party  (Le  Mercier's)  to  a  Mrs.  Simp- 
son and  a  Mrs.  Cockle.  I  quite  wish  you  had 
the  former  at  Chelmsford.  There  was  a  Mr. 
Capper,  too,  with  a  facsimile  of  Woodhouse's 
profile,  as  if  such  a  one  was  worthy  of  two 
editions ;  and  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him 
too.  You  should  have  him  in  for  nothing,  in 
exchange,  with  all  the  others,  against  Green, 
when  it  shall  please  you  to  export  him.  The 
ladies  of  Chelmsford  might  grow  their  own. 
They  have  had  time  enough  to  shred  him  like 
Angelica.  No  doubt  he  hath  often  gone,  pur- 

335 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

posely,  to  the  coach,  when  it  was  too  late,  like 
dear  Miss  Longmore, 

" '  Farewell  so  often  goes  before  't  is  gone  ! ' 

He  has  been  so  long  expected  here  that  we  are 
afraid  he  is  coming  by  a  hearse.  Tell  him,  the 
house  of  Blackheath  has  been  robbed,  and  his 
little  nephews  Wielanded.  Only  think  that 
Butler  likes  '  St.  Ronan's  Well,'  and  does  not 
dote  on  old  Im —  no,  *  Old  Mortality '  !  Have 
you  any  bluestockings  at  Chelmsford  ?  Tell 
them  that  you  know  a  gentleman  that  knows  a 
friend  of  Barry  Cornwall.  We  are  plotting  here 
to  go  to  the  play  when  it  shall  be  worth  seeing, 
but  do  not  let  that  hasten  you.  If  you  stay  a 
week  longer  you  shall  have  another  letter,  and  a 
better.  Now,  I  am  rather  hurried,  and  must 
put  in  an  appearance  before  Mr.  Hessey.  So 
God  bless  you,  dear,  tho',  I  say  that  deliber- 
ately, accept  my  sincere  love  and  kind  wishes, 
and  believe  me,  for  ever, 

"  Your  affectionate,  Brother, 
"T.  HOOD. 

"  P.  S.  for  Miss  LONGMORE,  —  London  is  very 
dull  and  foggy,  and  the  baked  codlins  very  dear. 
Pray  wear  list  shoes  this  nasty,  slidy  weather, 

336 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

and  keep  your  feet  warm ;  there 's  nothing  like 
that.  I  have  got  a  sprained  ankle,  but  do  not 
let  that  grieve  you.  Some  people  like  a  well- 
turn 'd  one,  but  I  don't.  It  gives  me  a  great  deal 
of  pain,  but  I  must  say  good-bye,  good-bye, 
good-bye,  go  —  goo  —  good,  by  —  by  —  bye." 

Notwithstanding  the  opposition  to  his  suit, 
Hood,  in  due  time,  reaped  the  reward  of  his  sin- 
cere affection  for  Jane  Reynolds.  There  were 
dark  days  in  store  for  these  two,  days  of  unceas- 
ing buffeting  with  adverse  fortune,  made  all  the 
more  trying  by  persistent  ill  health,  but  their 
devotion  and  affection  never  faltered  for  a  single 
moment.  Through  good  report  and  ill,  Jane 
Hood  was  a  true  and  faithful  wife,  the  inspiration 
of  some  of  her  husband's  best  work,  and  his  ever- 
ready  helper  in  preparing  his  manuscripts  for  the 
printers.  On  his  part,  too,  Thomas  Hood  never 
failed  in  love  and  duty  towards  his  wife  ;  "  he 
was  an  ideal  husband,"  testifies  Mr.  Towneley 
Green,  "and  wholly  devoted  to  Mrs.  Hood." 
The  honeymoon  was  spent  at  Hastings,  and 
from  thence  there  came  to  Mariane  and  Char- 
lotte Reynolds  a  letter  as  rich  in  the  peculiar 
qualities  of  Hood's  genius  as  any  production  of 
his  pen. 

22  337 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

"  THE  PRIORY,  HASTINGS, 

"  Tuesday  morning. 

"  MY  DEAR  MARIAXE  :  MY  DEAR  LOT,  — 
1  shall  leave  Jane  to  explain  to  you  why  we  have 
not  written  sooner,  and  betake  myself  at  once  to 
fill  up  my  share  of  the  letter ;  Jane  meanwhile 
resting  her  two  sprained  ankles,  worn  out  with 
walking,  or  rolling  rather,  upon  the  pebbly 
beach ;  for  she  is  not,  as  she  says,  the  shingle 
woman  that  she  used  to  be.  This  morning  I 
took  her  up  to  the  castle,  and  it  would  have 
amused  you,  after  I  had  hauled  her  up,  with 
great  labour,  one  of  its  giddy  steps,  to  see  her 
contemplating  her  re-descent.  Behind  her,  an 
unkindly  wall,  in  which  there  was  no  door  to 
admit  us  from  the  level  ridge  to  which  we  had 
attained  ;  before  her,  nothing  but  the  inevitable 
steep.  At  the  first  glance  downwards  she  seemed 
to  comprehend  that  she  must  stay  there  all  the 
day,  and,  as  I  generally  do,  I  thought  with  her. 
We  are  neither  of  us  a  chamois,  but  after  a  good 
deal  of  joint  scuffling  and  scrambling  and  kick- 
ing, I  got  her  down  again  upon  the  Downs.  I 
am  almost  afraid  to  tell  you  that  we  wished  for 
our  dear  Mariane  to  share  with  us  in  the  pros- 
pect from  above.  I  had  the  pleasure  besides  of 
groping  with  her  up  a  little  corkscrew  staircase 

338 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

in  a  ruined  turret,  and  seeing  her  poke  her  head 
like  a  sweep  out  at  the  top.  The  place  was  so 
small,  methought  it  was  like  exploring  a  marrow 
bone. 

"  This  is  the  last  of  our  excursions.  We  have 
tried,  but  in  vain,  to  find  out  the  baker  and  his 
wife  recommended  to  us  by  Lamb  as  the  very 
lions  of  green  Hastings.  There  is  no  such  street 
as  he  has  named  throughout  the  town,  and  the 
ovens  are  singularly  numerous.  We  have  given 
up  the  search,  therefore,  but  we  have  discovered 
the  little  church  in  the  wood,  and  it  is  such  a 
church !  It  ought  to  have  been  our  St.  Botolph's. 
(Pray  tell  Ma  by  the  way,  that  we  read  our 
marriage  in  the  morning  papers  at  the  library, 
and  it  read  very  well.)  Such  a  verdant  covert 
wood  Stothard  might  paint  for  the  haunting  of 
Dioneus,  Pamphillus,  and  Flammetta  as  they 
walk  in  the  novel  of  Boccacce.  The  ground 
shadowed  with  bluebells,  even  to  the  formation 
of  a  plum-like  bloom  upon  its  little  knolls  and 
ridges  ;  and  ever  through  the  dell  windeth  a  little 
path  chequered  with  the  shades  of  aspens  and 
ashes  and  the  most  verdant  and  lively  of  all  the 
family  of  trees.  Here  a  broad,  rude  stone  step- 
peth  over  a  lazy  spring,  oozing  its  way  into  grass 
and  weeds  ;  anon  a  fresh  pathway  divergeth,  you 

339 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

know  not  whither.  Meanwhile  the  wild  blackbird 
startles  across  the  way  and  singeth  anew  in  some 
other  shade.  To  have  seen  Flammetta  there, 
stepping  in  silk  attire,  like  a  flower,  and  the  sun- 
light looking  upon  her  betwixt  the  branches !  I 
had  not  walked  (in  the  body)  with  romance  be- 
fore. Then  suppose  so  much  of  a  space  cleared 
as  maketh  a  small  church  lawn  to  be  sprinkled 
with  old  gravestones,  and  in  the  midst  the  church 
itself,  a  small  Christian  dovecot,  such  as  Lamb 
has  truly  described  it,  like  a  little  temple  of  Juan 
Fernandez.  I  could  have  been  sentimental  and 
wished  to  lie  some  day  in  that  place,  its  calm 
tenants  seeming  to  come  through  such  quiet 
ways,  through  those  verdant  alleys,  to  their 
graves. 

"  In  coming  home  I  killed  a  viper  in  our  ser- 
pentine path,  and  Mrs.  Fernor  says  I  am  by  that 
token  to  overcome  an  enemy.  Is  Taylor  or 
Hessey  dead  ?  The  reptile  was  dark  and  dull, 
his  blood  being  yet  sluggish  from  the  cold  ;  how- 
beit,  he  tried  to  bite,  till  I  cut  him  in  two  with 
a  stone.  I  thought  of  Hessey 's  long  backbone 
when  I  did  it. 

"  They  are  called  adders,  tell  your  father,  be- 
cause two  and  two  of  them  together  make  four. 


340 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  I  resume.  Like  people  with  only  one  heart, 
we  are  writing  with  a  single  pen.  Mrs.  Fernor 
does  not  let  more  with  her  apartments,  and  we 
are  obliged  to  ride  and  tie  on  the  stump  of  an  old 
goose-quill.  In  a  struggle  for  possession  we  have 
inflicted  the  blots  above.  *  Some  natural  drops  he 
shed,  but  wiped  them  soon,'  as  Milton  says.  Our 
fire  is  beginning  to  burn  on  one  side,  a  sign  of  a 
parting,  and  Mrs.  Fernor  is  already  grieving  over 
our  departure.  On  Thursday  night  we  shall  be 
at  Islington  and  then  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  you 
as  well  as  we  are.  I  hope  you  have  been  com- 
fortable, dear,  and  accustomed  my  house  to  the 
command  which  it  is  to  comply  with.  I  hope 
Green  hath  been  often  on  Islington  Green,  which 
loveth  you ;  you  will  have  learned  from  our  to- 
pography to  approach  the  Angel.  I  hope  Ma 
hath  hanselled  our  teacups.  I  hope  my  garden  is 
transplanted  into  Mr.  Oldenhaws'.  I  hope  Dash 
is  well  and  behaves  well.  But  shortly  1  shall 
have  an  answer  to  all  my  anticipations.  Now 
we  must  leave  Hastings^  the  pleasant  scene  of 
our  setting  half-honeymoon.  Oh,  Lot,  could'st 
thou  but  see  the  teacups  at  Mr.  Davis's  !  Thou 
would'st  shed  some  drops  at  quitting  the  place  ! 
Pots,  there  is  enamel,  there  is  quaintness  and 
richness  of  pattern  !  Not  tea  merely,  but  kettles 

341 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

with  gilded  handles,  gorgeous  coffee-pots,  tran- 
scending even  thy  own  shelf.  In  one  thing  thou 
wert  shelfish,  in  not  giving  us  that  brown  teapot. 
Nay,  thou  art  worse  than  Mr.  Davis,  for  his  are 
to  be  got  for  money,  if  not  for  love. 

"  To-morrow  we  go  to  Lovers'  Seat,  as  it  is 
called,  to  hallow  it  by  our  presence.  Oh,  how 
I  wish  we  had  you  upon  Lovers'  Seat,  which 
took  its  name  from  the  appointments  of  a  fair 
maiden  with  a  gallant  lieutenant !  He  was  in 
the  preventive  service,  but  his  love  was  contra- 
band, and  in  a  romantic  bay  they  used  to  elude 
the  parental  excise.  Good-bye.  God  bless  you, 
my  dears,  till  we  meet  again.  I  long  to  meet  you 
again  as  your  Brother,  most  proud  and  happy  in 
your  affection.  My  love  and  duty  to  our  good 
Mother  and  to  our  Father. 

"  Your  own  affectionate  friend  and  Brother, 

"  T.  HOOD." 

It  would  appear  from  the  above  letter  that 
the  young  couple  began  housekeeping  in  the 
Islington  district,  but  ere  long  they  removed 
to  Robert  Street,  Adelphi.  During  the  twenty 
years  of  their  married  life,  the  Hoods  had  no 
fewer  than  eleven  homes,  but  in  the  first  three 
they  seemed  to  have  dwelt  for  rather  longer  than 

342 


ROBERT  STREET,   ADELPHI 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

the  average  of  two  years  suggested  by  compar- 
ing both  totals.  The  house  they  resided  in  at 
Robert  Street,  from  about  1825  to  1829,  was 
No.  2 —  a  fact  now,  for  the  first  time,  established 
by  Mr.  Towneley  Green's  papers  —  and,  save 
that  the  building  has  lost  its  numerical  identity 
by  absorption  into  the  hotel  which  occupies  the 
whole  of  the  left-hand  side  of  the  street,  this 
early  home  of  the  poet  has  changed  but  little 
during  the  past  seventy  years.  Here  their  first 
child  was  born,  and,  breathing  its  last  almost 
with  its  first  cry,  here  arrived  those  tender  lines  of 
Lamb,  "  On  an  Infant  Dying  as  soon  as  Born." 
While  still  dwelling  in  Robert  Street,  Hood 
edited  one  of  those  Annuals  so  popular  in  Eng- 
land seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  the  title  being 
"  The  Gem,"  and  the  date  of  publication  1829. 
He  was  an  industrious  editor,  casting  his  net 
far  and  wide.  A  letter  from  the  Quaker  poet, 
Bernard  Barton,  in  answer  to  a  request  for  a  con- 
tribution from  his  pen,  has  so  many  points  of 
interest  that  it  deserves  quotation  in  connection 
with  this  phase  of  Hood's  literary  enterprise. 

"  WoODBRIDGE, 

April  26th,  1828. 

"  MY   DEAR   FRIEND,  —  I   had    almost,   not 
sworn,  for  we  friendly  folk  use  not  such  attes- 

345 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

tations,  I  had  well-nigh  affirmed  I  would  have 
nothing  more  to  do  with  Annuals,  saving  that 
of  my  old  friend  Ackerman,  which  I  write  for 
from  mere  habit ;  but  an  application  for  an 
article  to  one  conducted  by  thee  and  contributed 
by  Elia  will  go  far  to  induce  me  to  try  what  I 
can  do.  Pray  let  me  know,  as  early  as  may  be, 
what  is  the  latest  I  can  be  allowed. 

"If  anybody  can  make  ought  of  such  a  specu- 
lation I  know  no  one  whose  chances  of  success 
are  better  than  thine ;  but  I  doubt  the  day  is 
somewhat  gone  by.  The  thing  was  overdone, 
I  fear,  last  year  ;  and  I  hear  of  new  ones  start- 
ing. I  had  a  letter  a  day  or  two  ago  from  one 
of  the  joint  authors  of  '  Body  and  Soul,'  stating 
that  he  was  about  editing  a  new  one.  Whether 
it  was  the  Body-man,  or  the  Soul-man  who 
addressed  me,  I  know  not !  If  only  the  former 
there  are  hopes  for  thee  ;  if  the  latter,  thou  must 
prepare  for  a  rivalry  for  Spirits.  But  1  never 
read  their  joint  Production,  so  perhaps  there 
may  be  little  difference  betwixt  them. 

"  What  is  thy  Annual  to  be  called,  and  who  is 
to  publish  it  ?  '  These  little  things  are  great  to 
little  men,'  and  to  little  books  too.  I  am  glad 
the  old  sentimental  Title  is  to  be  abandoned. 
The  '  Pledge  of  Friendship '  must  have  been  hit 

346 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

on,  I  opine,  by  some  enamoured  swain,  or  sigh- 
ing Nymph  ;  it  is  an  unmeaning  designation,  for 
anything,  everything,  or  nothing  may  be  a  pledge 
of  what  passes  by  courtesy  for  Friendship.  How 
to  supply  its  place,  however,  by  anything  appro- 
priate and  new,  is  beyond  my  powers  of  sugges- 
tion ;  the  change  cannot  well  be  for  the  worse, 
that's  one  comfort. 

"  Hast  thou  seen  or  heard  ought  of  Elia  lately  ? 
I  had  a  few  lines  from  him  a  day  or  two  back, 
written  in  worse  spirits  than  I  ever  knew  him 
exemplify.  He  said  he  was  ill,  too  ;  pray  let  me 
know  he  is  better,  for  I  should  be  loth  to  think 
him  so  bad  as  that  notelet  indicated. 

"  In  conclusion,  may  I  hope  for  the  indulgent 
forgiveness  of  one  cautionary  hint,  suggested  by 
no  meddling  spirit  of  officious  impertinence,  but 
by  a  cordial  desire  for  the  success  of  the  new 
undertaking,  and  a  hearty  interest  in  thy  endur- 
ing fame.  No  -one,  I  believe,  ever  undervalued 
wit  who  had  the  slightest  capacity  to  appreciate 
its  point  and  brilliancy  ;  I  am  well  aware  of  the 
temptations  to  which  so  seductive  a  faculty  is 
likely  to  expose  its  lively  and  mercurial  possessor ; 
but  *  Hal !  and  thou  lovest  me,'  pshaw !  that 's 
nothing,  —  I  mean,  if  thou  hast  a  due  regard  to 
a  still  more  lasting,  pure,  and  enviable  Name,  do 

347 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

not  in  thy  own  contributions  or  in  those  accepted 
from  others,  suffer  those  merry  quips  and  cranks 
to  exclude  totally  more  simple  and  sober  articles. 
Heartily  as  1  have  laughed  over  many  of  thy 
lively  sallies,  several  of  these,  despite  their  point 
and  originality,  I  have  forgotten  ;  but  not  a  let- 
ter or  line  of  the  verses  *  I  Remember,  I  Remem- 
ber,' have  from  the  first  perusal  of  them  been 
long  absent  from  my  recollection.  The  touching 
simplicity  and  the  deep  pathos  of  those  few  wit- 
less verses  electrified  more  at  the  moment  by 
their  perusal  than  the  same  quantum  of  poetry 
ever  did  before  or  since.  I  would  rather  be  the 
author  of  those  lines  than  of  almost  any  modern 
volume  of  poetry  published  during  the  last  ten 
years.  This  may  seem  extravagant,  but  I  know 
it  is  written  in  no  complimentary  mood. 

"  Thine  truly, 

"  B.  BARTON." 

Tempting  as  it  might  be  to  show  how  far  this 
letter  bore  fruit,  and  to  dwell  upon  the  literary 
activity  of  Hood  in  its  various  ramifications,  it  is 
necessary  to  turn  once  again  to  the  more  per- 
sonal aspect  of  his  life.  How  he  celebrated  one 
marriage  in  the  Reynolds  family  has  already  been 
mentioned,  and  it  now  remains  to  dwell  for  a 

348 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

moment  on  a  characteristic  water-colour  sketch, 
with  which  he  commemorated  the  wedding  of 
his  favourite,  Mariane.  The  bridegroom  was 
that  Mr.  Green  who  has  figured  frequently  in 


SKETCH  BY  HOOD  TO  CELEBRATE  THE  MARRIAGE  OF 
MARIANE  REYNOLDS 

the  letters  given  above,  and  he  is  depicted  in  the 
guise  of  one  of  those  "  Jacks-of-the-Green,"  so 
ubiquitous  on  May  Day  in  London  a  generation 
ago.  As  he  takes  his  bride  by  the  hand,  the 
while  the  parson  recites  the  words  which  make 
the  two  one,  her  face  assumes  a  greenish  hue.  A 
gentleman  in  obtrusive  goggles  at  the  rear  of  the 

349 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

bridegroom  is  Mr.  Green's  brother,  and  the  lady 
on  his  left,  with  a  hook  instead  of  a  hand,  is  in- 
tended for  Miss  Charlotte  Reynolds,  the  only 
member  of  the  family  to  retain  her  single  state. 
Behind  her  again  is  her  sister  Eliza,  Mrs.  Long- 
more,  and  on  the  extreme  left  of  the  sketch 


ROSE  COTTAGE,  WINCHMORE  HILL 

stand  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reynolds,  senior.  Nor  did 
the  perpetrator  of  this  humorous  wedding  record 
spare  himself,  for  Hood  is  to  be  observed  in  the 
right-hand  corner,  quaffing  wine  from  a  commu- 
nion cup ! 

Notwithstanding  that  formidable  hook,   and, 
what  was  more  to  the  purpose,  a  winning  sweet- 

350 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

ness  of  disposition,  Charlotte  Reynolds,  as  already 
indicated,  remained  faithful  to  the  character  Hood 
made  her  assume  in  his  "  Number  One."  She 
attained  a  ripe  old  age,  dying  in  1884,  after  hav- 
ing lived  many  years  in  the  Hampstead  home  of 


LAKE  HOUSE,  WANSTEAD 

her  two  gifted  nephews,  the  late  Mr.  Charles 
Green,  R.  I.,  and  the  late  Mr.  Towneley  Green, 
R.  I. 

When  the  Hoods  removed  from  Robert  Street, 
some  time  in  1829,  they  found  their  next  home 
in  a  picturesque  cottage  on  Winchmore  Hill. 
Probably  some  additions  have  been  made  to  the 

351 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

rear  of  the  building  since  that  date,  but  other- 
wise it  is  unaltered,  and  with  its  roomy  bay- 
windows,  its  creeper-clad  walls,  and  its  lovely 
garden,  it  remains  to  this  day  a  picture  of  an 
ideal  home  for  a  poet.  Hood's  home  instincts 
took  deeper  root  at  Winchmore  Hill  than  any- 
where else.  "  He  was  much  attached  to  it," 
wrote  his  daughter,  "  and  many  years  afterwards 
I  have  known  him  to  point  out  some  fancied 
resemblance  in  other  places,  and  say  to  my 
mother,  '  Jenny,  that 's  very  like  Winchmore ! ' 
In  1832  there  came  another  removal,  this  time 
to  Lake  House,  Wanstead.  Here,  again,  there 
has  been  little  change  since  the  days  of  Hood's 
tenancy.  Wedged  in  between  the  borders  of 
Wanstead  Park  and  that  narrow  tree-covered 
promontory  of  Epping  Forest  which  reaches  out 
as  far  south  on  the  left,  there  may  still  be  seen 
the  picturesque  few  acres  which  constitute  Lake 
House  Park.  The  house,  built  almost  wholly  of 
wood,  contains  nine  or  ten  bedrooms,  a  spacious 
kitchen,  and  a  large  dining-hall,  which  occupies 
almost  the  entire  length  of  the  building  in  the 
rear.  In  the  garden  behind  the  house  are  two 
old  cherry-trees,  and  some  years  ago  the  larger 
of  these  was  adorned  with  a  copper  plate  bearing 
this  inscription :  "  In  pity  for  the  woes  of  woman- 

352 


IN   OLD    ENGLAND 

kind,  beneath  this  ancient  tree  Thomas  Hood 
wrote  the  *  Song  of  the  Shirt,'  —  '  Stitch,  Stitch, 
Stitch.' '  The  tablet  is  gone,  and  the  hope  may 
be  expressed  that  if  the  desire  to  replace  it 
should  ever  have  a  practical  issue,  care  will  be 


HOOD'S  TREES  AT  WANSTEAD 

taken  not  to  perpetrate  the  falsehood  of  the  old 
inscription  ;  for  it  was  not  here,  and  in  1832,  that 
the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt "  was  written,  but  in  the 
Elm-tree  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  in  1843. 

Some  family  portrait-painting  of  abiding  in- 
terest was  achieved  during  the  Lake  House  days, 
for  it  was  here,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Towneley 

23  353 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 


Green,  that  the  portraits  of  Hood  and  his  wife  in 
the  National  Portrait  Gallery  were  executed. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Reynolds,  senior,  happened  to  be 

on  a  visit  to  Lake 
House  at  the  time, 
and  the  latter  was 
induced  to  sit  for 
her  portrait  also. 
But  no  persuasion 
availed  to  lead  Mr. 
Reynolds  to  face 
the  same  ordeal. 
Thus  it  happens 
that  the  only  sur- 
viving record  of 
his  personal  ap- 
pearance is  a  time- 
stained  pen-and- 
ink  sketch.  But 
if  his  son-in-law  could  not  persuade  him  to  sit 
for  his  portrait  he  had  little  difficulty  in  inducing 
him  to  assume  one  day  the  character  of  a  J.  P. 
of  the  county.  Several  small  boys  had  been 
caught  in  the  act  of  plundering  the  cherry-tree 
above  mentioned,  and  Hood  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  reading  them  a  lesson  by  a  mock 
trial.  So  the  culprits  were  haled  before  the  old 

354 


MRS.   HOOD,  n6e  JANE  REYNOLDS 


No.    17,   ELM-TREE  ROAD,    ST.   JOHN'S  WOOD 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 


gentleman  sitting  in  state  in  the  dining-hall,  and 
were  duly  sentenced  to  instant  execution  on  the 
tree  from  which  their  thefts  had  been  committed. 
The  poet's  infant 
daughter  had  been 
previously  coached 
to  plead  for  mercy, 
and  at  her  entrea- 
ties the  sentence 
was  as  solemnly 
revoked  as  it  had 
been  pronounced. 
From  the  early 
months  of  1835 
to  the  autumn  of 
1840,  Hood  was 
an  exile,  living  first 
at  Coblenz  and 
afterwards  at  Os- 
tend.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  sequence  of  mone- 
tary misfortunes  which  drove  him  to  the  Con- 
tinent for  the  sake  of  cheap  living,  but  those 
misfortunes  ought  never  to  be  mentioned  with- 
out the  reminder  being  given  that  they  were  due 
to  no  fault  on  his  side.  When  at  last  it  be- 
came possible  for  him  to  return  home,  he  resided 

357 


THOMAS   HOOD 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

for  a  brief  season  near  Camberwell  Green,  remov- 
ing to  No.  17,  Elm-tree  Road,  St.  John's  Wood, 
towards  the  end  of  1841,  on  his  being  appointed 
editor  of  Colb urn's  "  New  Monthly  Magazine  " 
at  a  salary  of  £300  a  year.  In  this  house  he 
resided  until  the  Christmas  of  1843,  when  he 
made  his  final  flitting  to  Devonshire  Lodge, 
New  Finchley  Road.  That  building,  however 
-  the  scene  of  his  death  in  1845  —  is  no  longer 
standing. 

Hood's  appointment  as  editor  of  the  "  New 
Monthly  Magazine "  was  hailed  with  genuine 
satisfaction  on  all  hands,  and  through  the  whole 
of  1842,  and  well  on  towards  the  end  of  the 
next  year,  he  continued  to  discharge  the  duties 
of  that  position  in  such  a  manner  as  to  fulfil  all 
the  favourable  prophecies  of  his  friends.  Then 
there  arose  some  misunderstanding  between  Mr. 
Colburn  and  his  editor,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  latter  received  the  following  letter  from  his 
staunch  friend,  Charles  Dickens.  It  will  assist 
in  its  interpretation  if  the  reader  bears  in  mind 
that  when  Hood  received  it  he  was  on  the  eve 
of  a  visit  to  Scotland,  undertaken  partly  for 
health's  sake,  but  also  in  the  hope  that  his  jour- 
ney might  have  a  profitable  issue  in  literary 
employment. 

358 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

"  BROADSTAIRS,  KENT. 

"Twelfth  September,  1843. 

"  MY  DEAR  HOOD,  —  Since  I  received  your 
first  letter  I  have  been  pegging  away  tooth  and 
nail  at  Chuzzlewit.  Your  supplementary  note 
gave  me  a  pang,  such  as  one  feels  when  a  friend 
has  to  knock  twice  at  the  street  door  before 
anybody  opens  it. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  any 
honourable  man,  that  the  circumstances  under 
which  you  signed  your  agreement  are  of  the 
most  disgraceful  kind,  in  so  far  as  Mr.  Colburn 
is  concerned.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he 
took  a  money-lending,  bill-broking,  Jew-clothes- 
bagging,  Saturday-night-pawnbroking  advantage 
of  your  temporary  situation.  There  is  little 
doubt  (so  I  learn  from  Forster,  who  had  pre- 
viously given  me  exactly  your  version  of  the  cir- 
cumstances) that,  like  most  pieces  of  knavery ,. 
this  precious  document  is  a  mere  piece  of  folly, 
and  just  a  scrap  of  wastepaper  wherein  Mr. 
Schobel  might  wrap  his  Chity-snuff.  But  I  am 
sorry,  speaking  with  a  backward  view  to  the  feasi- 
bility of  placing  you  in  a  better  situation  with 
Colburn,  that  you  flung  up  the  Editorship  of 
the  magazine.  I  think  you  did  so  at  a  bad  time,, 
and  wasted  your  strength  in  consequence. 

359 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

"  When  a  thing  is  done  it  is  of  no  use  giving 
advice,  not  even  when  it  can  be  as  frankly 
rejected  as  mine  can  be  by  you.  But  have  you 
quite  determined  to  reject  his  offer  of  thirty 
guineas  per  sheet  ?  Have  you  placed  it,  or 
resolved  to  place  it,  out  of  your  power  to  enter 
into  such  an  arrangement,  if  you  should  feel  dis- 
posed to  do  so,  by-and-bye?  On  my  word,  I 
would  pause  before  I  did  so,  and  if  I  did,  then 
most  decidedly  I  would  open  a  communication 
with  Bentley,  and  try  to  get  that  magazine. 
For  to  any  man,  I  don't  care  who  he  is,  the 
Editorship  of  a  monthly  magazine,  on  tolerable 
terms,  is  a  matter  of  too  much  moment,  in  its 
pecuniary  importance  and  certainty,  to  be  flung 
away  as  of  little  worth.  It  would  be  to  me,  I 
assure  you. 

"  I  send  you  letters  for  Jeffrey  and  Napier. 
If  the  former  should  not  be  in  Edinburgh,  you 
will  find  him  at  his  country  place,  Craigcrook, 
within  three  or  four  miles  of  that  city.  Should 
you  see  Wilson,  give  him  a  hundred  hearty 
greetings  from  me ;  and  should  you  see  the 
Blackwoods,  don't  believe  a  word  they  say  to 
you.  Moir  (their  Delta)  is  a  very  fine  fellow, 
and  you  will  like  him  very  much.  In  all  prob- 
ability he  will  come  to  see  you,  should  he  know 

360 


IN   OLD    ENGLAND 

of  your  being  in  Edinburgh.  A  pleasant  jour- 
ney, and  a  pleasant  return :  Mrs.  Dickens  unites 
with  me  in  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Hood,  and  I  am 
always,  my  dear  Hood. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

\ 

"P.  S.  The  light  of  Mr.  Colburn's  counte- 
nance has  not  shone  upon  me  in  these  parts. 
May  I  remain  in  outer  darkness ! " 

Notwithstanding  the  advice  of  Dickens  —  per- 
haps it  was  too  late  —  Hood's  rupture  with  Mr. 
Colburn  was  complete  before  the  year  ended, 
and  January  1844,  saw  the  first  issue  of  his  own 
venture,  bearing  the  title  of  "  Hood's  Magazine." 
He  had  suffered  so  much  from  publishers  that  he 
determined  to  issue  the  magazine  himself,  and 
an  office  for  that  purpose  was  secured  at  No.  1, 
Adam  Street,  Adelphi.  Here  he  worked  early 
and  late  at  his  editorial  labours,  and  here  he 
occasionally  slept  when  the  pressure  of  work  was 
high.  The  magazine  was  a  pronounced  success 
from  its  first  issue,  and,  had  life  and  health  been 
in  store  for  Hood,  there  can  be  no  question  but 
it  would  have  proved  a  valuable  property.  But 
the  sixth  issue  of  the  monthly  contained  those 

361 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 


No.    1,  ADAM  STBEET,  ADELPHI 

pathetic  "  Editor's  Apologies  "  which  have  been 
already  referred  to,  and  although  he  rallied 
somewhat  from  the  attack  by  which  they  were 
occasioned,  henceforth  there  was  little  hope  for 

362 


HOOD'S  GRAVE  IN  KENSAL  GREEN  CEMETERY 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

any  material  prolongation  of  life.  With  the 
issue  of  the  magazine  for  March  1845,  there  was 
given  an  engraving  of  the  bust  of  the  Editor, 
and  it  was  this  portrait,  specially  printed  on  large 
plate  paper,  which  Hood  chose  as  his  farewell 
gift  to  his  friends.  Between  the  attacks  of  pain, 
he  sat  up  in  bed  to  inscribe  on  each  copy  his  sig- 
nature and  a  few  affectionate  words,  the  number 
in  the  end  reaching  upwards  of  a  hundred. 
These  were  to  be  his  last  messages  to  those  who 
knew  and  loved  him.  He  died  on  the  3rd 
May,  1845,  and  on  a  July  day,  nine  years  later, 
Monckton  Milnes  unveiled  the  monument  which 
rests  above  his  grave  in  Kensal  Green  Cemetery. 
Beneath  the  bust  there  runs  the  legend  "  He  sang 
the  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  and  on  either  side  of  the 
pedestal  are  bas-relief  medallions  of  "Eugene 
Aram's  Dream,"  and  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs  "  — 
all  pertinent  reminders  of  the  fact  that  there  was 
a  serious  as  well  as  a  humorous  side  to  the  genius 
of  Hood. 

He  himself,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  would 
have  elected  to  live  by  his  serious  verse,  for 
when  the  public  refused  to  purchase  his  "  Plea 
of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,"  did  he  not  buy  up 
the  edition  to  "save  it  from  the  butter-shops"? 
If,  even  after  death,  there  can  be  no  dissolution 

365 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

of  the  dual  domination  of  Humour  and  Pathos, 
at  least  let  it  be  confessed  that,  in  his  graver 
moods,  Thomas  Hood  achieved  work  which  is 
not  unworthy  to  be  garnered  with  the  choicest 
fruits  of  English  poesy. 


MEDALLION  ON  HOOD'S  MONUMENT 


366 


XI 
ROYAL    WINCHESTER 


XI 

ROYAL  WINCHESTER 

"  Behold  a  pupil  of  the  monkish  gown, 
The  pious  ALFRED,  King  to  Justice  dear  ! 
Lord  of  the  harp  and  liberating  spear  ; 
Mirror  of  Princes  !  Indigent  Renonm 
Might  range  the  starry  ether  for  a  crown 
Equal  to  HIS  deserts." 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

TIME  was  when  Winchester,  the  "  royal  city,"  as 
Kingsley  called  it,  far  out-rivalled  London  in 
prosperity  and  business  activity,  and  if  for  many 
generations  the  Hampshire  capital  has  been  left 
hopelessly  behind  by  the  great  metropolis,  it  can 
still  boast  a  fascination  to  which  London  can 
make  no  claim.  Indeed,  of  all  the  ancient  cathe- 
dral cities  of  England,  over  which  the  peace  of 
the  old-time  world  seems  perpetually  to  brood, 
there  is  not  one  which  can  compete  with  Win- 
chester for  richness  of  historical  interest.  And, 
as  is  not  usually  the  case,  that  historic  interest 
becomes  more  living  and  intense  with  every  pass- 
ing generation.  "  It  is  not  in  death,  but  in  the 

24  369 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

beautiful  tranquillity  of  serene  old  age  that  Win- 
chester reposes  in  her  sweet  green  valley  low 
down  among  the  swelling  hills  that  compass  her 
about.  No  English  city  has  such  a  noble  record 
in  the  past,  or  a  life  more  peaceful  in  our  rushing, 
hasteful  age." 

Though  from  the  time  of  Egbert  to  long  after 
the  Norman  Conquest,  the  history  of  Winchester 
is  a  summary  of  the  history  of  England,  and  hence 
has  memorable  associations  with  the  names  of 
Ethelred,  Edward  the  Elder,  Canute  the  Dane, 
and  Norman  William,  it  is  mainly  because  of  its 
reminiscences  of  Alfred  the  Great  that  the  city 
possesses  such  undying  interest.  After  the  lapse 
of  a  thousand  years  Winchester  is  still  perme- 
ated by  the  presence  of  the  great  Anglo-Saxon 
king.  Here  he  spent  some  part  of  his  boyhood, 
pupil  the  while  of  that  St.  Swithun  whose  essential 
greatness  of  character  is  eclipsed  in  these  days  by 
his  supposed  bad  connection  with  the  too  watery 
nature  of  English  skies.  Alfred  made  Winches- 
ter the  capital  of  the  English  people ;  there  he 
held  his  court  what  time  his  land  was  at  peace ; 
within  its  walls  he  devised  those  wise  laws  which 
will  ever  lend  a  fragrance  to  his  memory  ;  here 
he  directed  the  penning  of  that  book  which  stands 
first  on  the  illustrious  roll  of  English  prose.  In 

370 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Winchester,  too,  he  laid  down  the  burden  of  his 
life,  and  the  soil  of  that  city  holds  somewhere  to 
this  day  the  precious  dust  of  that  perfect  king. 

In  a  thousand  years,  time  plays  sad  havoc  with 
the  visible  environments   of  famous   men,  and 


WOLVESEV  CASTLE 

hence  it  is  not  surprising  that  so  far  as  stones 
and  mortar  go,  there  is  little  left  which  can  help 
us  to  picture  the  conditions  amid  which  Alfred 
passed  his  life.  But  what  little  still  exists  must 
be  sought  mainly  at  Winchester.  In  the  ruins 
of  Wolvesey  Castle,  for  example,  the  historic 
imagination  possesses  rich  material  to  aid  it  in 
constructing  a  picture  of  one  important  phase  of 
Alfred's  work.  It  was  here  that,  at  his  com- 

371 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

mand  and  under  his  direction,  the  "  Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle "  was  compiled  and  copied.  By  the 
common  consent  of  scholars,  this  book  is  the  first 
history  of  the  English  people,  and  the  "  earliest 
and  most  venerable  monument  of  English  prose." 
To  stand  among  the  ruins  of  Wolvesey  Castle, 
then,  is  to  stand  at  the  fountain-head  of  our  lit- 
erature. On  this  spot,  within  these  grey,  crum- 
bling walls,  there  took  rise  that  stream  of  English 
writing  which  for  these  thousand  years  has  rolled 
onward,  ever  increasing  in  volume  and  breadth. 
Parts  of  the  "  Chronicle  "  were  written  by  Alfred 
himself,  and  the  ancient  manuscript,  that  which 
used  to  be  chained  to  a  desk  in  Wolvesey  Castle, 
so  that  all  might  read  it  who  could,  may  still  be 
seen  in  the  library  of  Corpus  Christi  College, 
Oxford. 

Alfred  was  buried  first  in  the  Old  Minster  at 
Winchester,  but  the  canons  affirmed  that  his 
ghost  walked  at  nights  and  gave  them  no  rest, 
and  in  the  end  they  prevailed  upon  his  son 
Edward  to  remove  the  remains  to  the  New  Min- 
ster, which  Alfred  himself  had  founded  in  order 
to  keep  a  certain  prior  at  his  court.  In  the  New 
Minster  the  King  found  peace  for  a  century  or  so, 
but  when  the  monks  were  turned  out  of  that 
building  and  sent  to  Hyde  Abbey  in  another 

372 


a 
t 

B 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

part  of  the  city,  they  took  with  them  the  sacred 
dust  of  the  monarch  who  had  founded  their 
house.  With  the  burial  of  Alfred's  body  at 
Hyde  Abbey  it  vanishes  from  our  sight.  For  in 
the  eighteenth  century  Hyde  Abbey  was  almost 
wholly  demolished,  and  then  the  last  authentic 
traces  of  the  King's  resting-place  disappeared.  Of 
the  Abbey  itself  there  are  only  one  or  two  frag- 
ments remaining.  There  is  the  entrance  gateway, 
the  corbels  of  which  are  thought  to  be  por- 
traits of  Alfred  and  his  son,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  that  gateway  is  a  building,  now  used  for 
farm  purposes,  which  formed  part  of  the  original 
structure.  Some  years  ago,  however,  during  ex- 
cavations here,  a  coffin  was  laid  bare  which  is 
thought  to  have  been  that  of  the  King,  and  this 
was  reverently  re-buried  at  the  east  end  of  Hyde 
Church  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

Amid  these  scenes  which  are  so  redolent  of  his 
memory,  the  pilgrim  cannot  fail  to  ask  himself 
what  manner  of  man  was  this  king  whom  all 
conspire  to  honour,  who  is  described  as  "the  only 
perfect  man  of  action  recorded  in  history,"  who 
is  held  up  as  the  typical  man  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race  at  its  best  and  noblest  ?  Historical  criticism 
has  handled  very  roughly  the  stories  with  which 
the  school-books  of  childhood  used  to  brighten 

375 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

the  record  of  his  life,  and  we  are  told  that  we 
must  no  longer  believe  he  was  so  impractical  a 
man  as  to  allow  his  own  supper  to  get  burnt  on 
the  hearth,  or  that  he  was  so  unwary  a  general 
as  to  go  about  masquerading  with  a  harp  in  the 
enemy's  camp.  But  are  not  the  critics  unjust  in 
their  treatment  of  Asser,  that  Welsh  priest  whose 
life  of  Alfred  is  our  chief  source  of  information  ? 
They  seem  to  accept  his  authority  for  dry-as- 
dust  statements,  but  pooh-pooh  him  when  he 
indulges  in  a  little  Boswellianism.  Let  Asser 
speak  for  Alfred  for  a  moment,  then,  speak  out  of 
that  overflowing  admiration  which  the  great  king 
had  the  secret  to  inspire,  living  or  dead,  in  those 
who  had  looked  on  his  face,  and  in  those  who 
think  of  him  a  thousand  years  after.  "  He  was 
loved  by  his  father  and  mother,"  writes  Asser, 
"  and  even  by  all  the  people,  above  all  by  his 
brothers.  As  he  advanced  through  the  years 
of  infancy  and  youth,  his  form  appeared  more 
comely  than  that  of  his  brothers;  in  look,  in 
speech,  and  in  manners  he  was  more  graceful  than 
they.  His  noble  nature  implanted  in  him  from 
his  cradle  a  love  of  wisdom  above  all  things."  Is 
it  any  wonder  that  when  he  took  the  crown  it 
was  "  amid  the  acclamations  of  all  the  people," 
and  that  when  he  came  forth  to  lead  his  men 

376 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

against  the  Danes,  his  followers  "  were  joyful  at 
his  presence  "  ? 

After  all  it  is  but  a  mere  handful  of  stories  that 
we  have  of  Alfred,  and  we  will  not  be  robbed  of 


SUPPOSED  GRAVE  OF  ALFRED  THE  GREAT 

these.  We  shall  go  on  believing  that  he  let  the 
cakes  burn  on  the  hearth  while  lost  in  thought  on 
the  future  of  his  country ;  no  pedantic  verdict 
shall  explain  away  the  legend  which  makes  him 
become  his  own  intelligence  officer  by  assuming 
the  guise  of  a  harper  in  order  to  penetrate  the 

377 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

enemy's  camp  ;  nor  shall  any  criticism  shake  our 
faith  in  that  pretty  story  of  his  youth  which  tells 
how  his  mother  offered  a  richly  illuminated  book 
to  that  one  of  her  sons  who  could  first  repeat  its 
contents,  with  the  result  that  Alfred  won  the 
prize. 

Although,  thanks  to  the  fears  of  those  timid 
canons,  the  cathedral  does  not  enshrine  the  dust 
of  Alfred  the  Great,  there  still  repose  beneath  its 
roof  those  mortuary  chests  in  which  an  early 
bishop  of  the  diocese  deposited  the  bones  of 
Egbert,  Canute,  Edmund,  and  other  kings. 
Even  if  these  quaint  caskets  could  be  inspected 
more  closely  than  is  possible  owing  to  their  ele- 
vated position  on  the  summits  of  the  tracery 
screens  of  the  choir,  there  are  probably  few  who 
would  regard  them  otherwise  than  with  feelings 
of  "cold  curiosity  or  vague  admiration."  It 
would  be  otherwise  had  the  dust  of  Alfred  re- 
tained a  shrine  here  ;  he  is  a  living  memory  still, 
with  power  to  inspire  a  personal  affection  rarely 
felt  for  kings ;  but  these  other  memorials  of 
royalty  somehow  lack  the  power  to  touch  the 
heart.  While  wandering  through  Westminster 
Abbey,  Washington  Irving  noticed  that  visitors 
always  remained  longest  in  the  vicinity  of  Poets' 
Corner.  "  They  linger  about  these  monuments 

378 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions ; 
for  indeed  there  is  something  of  companionship 
between  author  and  reader.  Other  men  are 
known  to  posterity  only  through  the  medium  of 
history,  which  is  continually  growing  faint  and 
obscure  ;  but  the  intercourse  between  the  author 
and  his  fellow-men  is  ever  new,  active,  and 
immediate." 

Happily,  Winchester  Cathedral  does  not  lack 
memorials  of  some  of  those  great  dead  for  whom 
all  men  entertain  a  personal  affection.  For  ex- 
ample, in  the  floor  of  Prior  Silkstede's  Chapel  a 
black  marble  stone  marks  the  last  resting-place 
of  Izaak  Walton.  As  soon  as  he  was  released 
from  the  burden  of  business,  this  childlike  old 
man,  with  the  ruddy  cheek  and  laughing  eye, 
as  Hazlitt  imagined  him,  passed  peacefully  from 
parsonage  to  deanery,  or  bishop's  palace,  linger- 
ing longest,  we  may  be  sure,  where  quiet  rivers 
most  abounded.  This  helps  to  explain  why  the 
home  of  his  son-in-law,  Dr.  Hawkins,  who  was  a 
prebendary  of  Winchester,  proved  so  increasingly 
attractive  in  the  angler's  later  years.  On  the 
ninetieth  anniversary  of  his  birth,  Izaak  Walton, 
sheltered  by  his  son-in-law's  roof  at  Winchester, 
sat  down  to  write  his  will.  Having  disposed  of 
his  principal  properties  to  his  son-in-law,  his 

379 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

daughter,  and  his  son,  and  having  arranged  that 
these  three  shall  each  come  into  the  possession 
of  a  memorial  ring  bearing  the  motto  "  Love 
my  Memory.  I.  WV',  the  old  man  added,  "  I 


I 


IZAAK  WALTON'S  GRAVE 


desire  my  burial  to  be  near  the  place  of  my 
death,  and  free  from  all  ostentation  or  charge, 
but  privately."  Four  months  later,  when  the 
great  frost  of  1683  held  all  England  in  its  iron 
grip,  the  venerable  old  man  entered  into  his  rest. 
So  this  grave  was  prepared  for  him  in  Prior 
Silkstede's  Chapel,  and  the  quaint  inscription 
tells  that  — 

380 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

Here  Resteth  the  body  of 

MR  ISAAC  WALTON 

Who  Dyed  the  13th  of  December 

1683. 

Alas  !  hees  gone  before 
Gone  to  return  noe  more 
Our  panting  Breasts  aspire 
After  their  aged  Sire 
Whose  well-spent  life  did  last 
Full  ninety  yeares  and  past 
But  now  he  hath  begun 
That  which  will  ne're  be  done 
Crown'd  with  eternall  blisse 
We  wish  our  Souls  with  his. 

Votis  Modesiis  sicjlerunt  Libert 

When  that  quiet  funeral  took  place  in  Prior 
Silkstede's  Chapel,  none  of  the  sorrowing  mourners 
who  were  there  taking  farewell  of  the  aged  angler 
saw  the  fresco  which  is  now  seen  to  adorn  the 
wall  of  that  tiny  chapel.  Its  subject  is  the  call- 
ing of  Peter,  who,  in  an  attitude  of  fear,  holds 
tightly  to  the  prow  of  his  boat,  and  its  existence 
has  only  been  known  some  fifty  years.  How  it 
would  have  pleased  Walton  could  he  have  been 
aware  of  this  painting  on  the  walls  of  his  death 
chamber,  for  he  was  never  weary  of  exalting  his 
art  by  dwelling  upon  the  fact  that  for  four  of 
his  apostles  Christ  chose  fishermen,  and  that 
"  He  never  reproved  these  for  their  employment 

381 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

or  calling,  as  He  did  scribes  and  the  money- 
lenders." 

There  is  a  legend  which  tells  that  a  verger  of 
Winchester  Cathedral,  questioned  repeatedly  as 
to  the  whereabouts  of  a  certain  lady's  tomb  in 
that  minster,  once  enquired  whether  there  was 
anything  remarkable  about  that  lady  that  so  many 
should  ask  to  see  the  spot  where  she  lay, — which 
would  seem  to  show  that  Jane  Austen  is  not  with- 
out honour  save  in  the  city  where  she  died. 

In  one  respect  Jane  Austen  is  more  fortunate 
in  her  Winchester  associations  than  John  Keats. 
Two  years  after  the  novelist  had  breathed  her 
last  in  the  peaceful  old  cathedral  city,  the  poet 
dwelt  within  its  walls  for  a  couple  of  months. 
It  was  at  the  fall  of  the  year,  and  as  he  wandered 
amid  the  meadows  which  encircle  the  city  so 
pleasantly  on  either  side,  there  came  to  the  poet 
that  inspiration  which  has  left  its  mark  on  English 
literature  for  all  time  in  the  haunting  "  Ode  to 
Autumn."  But  Keats  came  and  went  without 
the  people  of  Winchester  being  aware  of  his 
presence.  Although  the  house  in  which  Jane 
Austen  died  in  1817  is  known  and  marked  with 
a  tablet,  the  house  in  which  Keats  lived  in  1819 
is  unknown,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  hopelessly 
lost  to  the  literary  pilgrim. 

382 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

When  Jane  Austen,  in  May  1817,  removed 
to  lodgings  at  Winchester,  to  avail  herself  of 
expert  medical  advice,  the  hand  of  death  was 


HOUSE  IN  WHICH  JANE  AUSTEN  DIED 

already  upon  her.  It  was  in  College  Street  she 
took  up  her  quarters,  in  a  house  adjoining  the 
famous  college  of  William  of  Wykeham.  "Our 
lodgings,"  she  wrote,  "  are  very  comfortable. 

383 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

We  have  a  neat  little  drawing-room,  with  a  bow 
window  overlooking  Dr.  Gabell's  garden."  In 
the  same  hopeful  letter  she  makes  a  playful 
allusion  to  her  doctor.  "  Mr.  Lyford  says  he 
will  cure  me,  and  if  he  fails,  I  shall  draw  up  a 


JANE  AUSTEN'S  GRAVE 

memorial  and  lay  it  before  the  Dean  and  Chapter, 
and  have  no  doubt  of  redress  from  that  pious, 
learned,  and  disinterested  body."  Jane  Austen 
was  even  then  nearer  needing  the  services  of  the 
Dean,  or  one  of  his  clergy,  than  she  knew.  To 
the  kindly  friend  who  asked  in  the  closing  hour 
if  there  were  anything  she  wanted,  Jane  Austen 

384 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

made  answer,  "  Nothing  but  death."  For  her 
tired  body  that  wish  was  soon  granted,  but  for  her 
fame  there  is  an  enduring  immortality.  Close 
by  the  side  of  that  bow  window  with  which  she 
was  so  pleased,  a  tablet  now  records  that  "  In 
this  house  Jane  Austen  lived  her  last  days  and 
died  July  18th,  1817." 

Hardly  could  there  be  imagined  a  more 
seemly  resting-place  for  Jane  Austen  than  that 
grey  old  minster  in  which  her  body  was  laid  to 
rest.  There  is  about  this  building  an  aloofness 
from  the  feverish  haste  of  modern  life  which 
makes  complete  harmony  with  the  pages  of  that 
writer  who  has  mirrored  so  faithfully  a  social  life 
so  far  removed  from  our  own.  Her  grave 
must  be  sought  near  the  centre  of  the  north 
aisle,  and  it,  like  that  of  Izaak  Walton,  is  cov- 
ered with  a  simple  slab  of  black  marble.  The 
inscription  dwells  with  characteristic  emphasis 
upon  what  she  was  rather  than  upon  what  she 
did.  Her  own  family  were  more  fond  of  her 
than  proud.  "  The  benevolence  of  her  heart,"  so 
runs  the  inscription,  "and  the  extraordinary 
endowments  of  her  mind,  obtained  the  regard 
of  all  who  knew  her,  and  the  warmest  love  of  her 
intimate  connections."  A  variation  of  the  same 
eulogy  may  be  read  on  the  brass  which  adorns 

25  385 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

the  wall  of  the  cathedral  opposite  the  grave ; 
"  endeared  to  her  family  by  the  varied  charms  of 
her  character  "  is  its  testimony. 

It  may  seem  incongruous  that  a  building  so 
pronouncedly  ecclesiastical  as  a  deanery  should 


WINCHESTER  DEANERY 

revive  memories  of  so  notorious  a  courtesan  as 
Nell  Gwynne ;  but  the  fact  that  the  deanery  at 
Winchester,  which  may  be  found  within  the 
exquisite  precincts  of  the  cathedral,  does  recall 
that  fascinating  woman  casts  no  reflection  upon 
the  worthy  Dr.  Ken.  It  was  all  the  fault  of  the 
"Merry  Monarch"  himself.  When  Charles  II 

386 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

was  visiting  Winchester  while  engrossed  with 
his  plans  for  the  building  of  a  royal  residence  in 
that  historic  city,  Mistress  Nell  was,  of  course, 
in  attendance,  and  it  became  necessary  to  pro- 
vide her  with  a  lodging.  It  happened  that  Dr. 
Ken,  then  prebendary  of  the  cathedral,  had  a 
snug  little  home  at  the  deanery,  and  Charles 
promptly  coveted  the  place  for  his  mistress.  He 
himself  was  lodging  at  the  deanery,  and  the 
arrangement  he  suggested  would,  no  doubt,  have 
been  extremely  convenient.  But  Dr.  Ken  did 
not  see  eye  to  eye  with  his  monarch ;  in  fact,  he 
stoutly  refused  to  give  Mistress  Nell  the  shelter 
of  the  deanery  roof.  Charles  was  too  sensible  a 
man  to  take  umbrage  at  such  a  creditable  exhibi- 
tion of  independence,  and  when  the  Bishopric  of 
Bath  and  Wells  became  vacant,  he  promptly 
enquired,  "  Where  is  the  good  little  man  who 
refused  his  lodging  to  poor  Nell  ? " 

Emerson  has  told  how  he  and  Carlyle,  when 
returning  from  their  memorable  pilgrimage  to 
Stonehenge,  "  stopped  at  the  Church  of  Saint 
Cross,  and,  after  looking  through  the  quaint 
antiquity,  we  demanded  a  piece  of  bread  and  a 
draught  of  beer,  which  the  founder,  Henry  de 
Blois  in  1136,  commanded  should  be  given  to 
everyone  who  should  ask  it  at  the  gate." 

387 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

For  more  than  seven  hundred  years  one  day 
has  been  the  same  as  any  other  at  this  "  quaint 
antiquity "  of  St.  Cross.  In  that  long  span  of 
time  empires  have  grown  and  decayed,  but  their 


THE  ENTRANCE  TO   ST.   CROSS 

coming  or  their  passing  has  made  no  stir  in 
the  peaceful  life  of  these  time-stained  cloisters. 
Since  the  twelfth  century,  when  Bishop  Henry 
de  Blois  reared  this  monastic  almshouse  amid 
the  green  fields  by  the  side  of  the  river  Itchen, 

388 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

there  has  been  no  change  at  St.  Cross,  and  the 
brethren,  in  their  accomplishment  of  the  "  daily 
round,  the  common  task,"  in  the  reign  of  King 
Edward  Vll  perpetuate  the  life  of  their  prede- 
cessors in  the  reign  of  King  Stephen. 

It  is  a  trite  remark  that  the  monks  of  the 
olden  time  knew  where  to  pitch  their  tents  —  a 
remark  which  is  supported  by  the  nature-setting 
of  every  ancient  abbey  in  England.  Renunci- 
ation of  the  world,  apparently,  was  not  deemed 
inconsistent  with  the  selection  of  the  most  pic- 
turesque spot  possible  in  which  to  endure  that 
renunciation !  True,  St.  Cross  is  not  exactly 
a  monastery,  but  its  original  foundation  ap- 
proached near  enough  to  that  class  of  religious 
establishment  to  warrant  Henry  de  Blois  in 
selecting  a  site  for  his  building  on  the  monkish 
principle  of  tempering  one's  renunciation  of 
the  world  as  far  as  possible.  And  what  a  site  it 
is !  At  the  foot  of  St.  Catherine's  Hill,  about  a 
mile  from  Winchester,  the  placid  Itchen  has 
moistened  a  little  valley  into  a  verdant  paradise, 
and  here,  amid  bosky  trees,  with  their  roots  deep 
buried  under  velvety  sward,  Henry  de  Blois 
built  his  Hospital  of  St.  Cross. 

Not  all  the  honour  of  St.  Cross  belongs  to 
Henry  de  Blois.  Three  centuries  after  the  first 

389 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

foundation  was  made,  Cardinal  Beaufort  added 
to  its  wealth,  and  to  the  present  day  there  is  a 
distinction  between  Henry  de  Blois  brethren  and 
Beaufort  brethren.  The  distinction,  however, 
practically  resolves  itself  into  one  of  dress 
merely,  for  while  the  pensioners  of  St.  Cross 
are  attired  in  a  long  black  gown,  whose  sole 
ornament  is  that  of  a  silver  cross  on  the  left 
breast,  the  Beaufort  brethren  are  resplendent  in  a 
red  robe  embroidered  with  a  cardinal's  hat  and 
tassels.  The  two  foundations  conjointly  provide 
a  peaceful  old-age  haven  for  seventeen  brethren, 
who,  with  their  delightful  little  homes,  their  well- 
tended  gardens,  their  daily  dinner  from  the  com- 
mon hall,  and  their  modest  income  of  hard  cash, 
provide  the  statesman  with  ideal  examples  of  an 
old-age  pension  state. 

Under  the  Beaufort  Tower,  which  ensures 
lasting  memory  for  at  least  one  of  the  founder's 
names,  is  situated  the  porter's  lodge,  and  in  that 
lodge  the  visitor  finds  the  raw  materials  by  which 
St.  Cross  maintains  its  most  interesting  survival 
of  the  past.  Those  materials  are  a  barrel  of  beer 
and  a  loaf  of  bread.  No  one  knocks  in  vain  at 
the  door  of  St.  Cross.  It  is  a  picturesque  and 
irritating  legend  of  history  that  in  the  good  old 
times  every  great  house  of  England  kept  open 

390 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

table,  whereat  the  hungry  wayfarer  was  certain 
of  a  welcome  and  a  meal,  Perhaps  that  picture 
is  a  pleasing  generalisation  of  the  historic  imagi- 
nation, but  St.  Cross  can  claim  to  furnish  concrete 
proof  of  its  truth  in  at  least  one  case.  For  seven 
centuries  the  hungry  and  the  thirsty  have  never 
called  here  to  be  sent  empty  away,  and  hence, 
even  in  this  era  of 
enlightenment,  when 
every  pauper  may  have 
his  night's  rest  and  a 
meal  in  exchange  for 
labour,  there  is  still 
one  hospitable  shelter 
in  England  which 
keeps  its  continuity  THE  DOLE  AT  ST-  CROSS 
with  the  past  by  giving  every  caller  a  horn  of 
beer  and  a  slice  of  bread  for  nothing.  Of  course 
there  are  many  people  who  drink  the  beer  and 
eat  the  bread  of  St.  Cross  without  having  any 
pressing  necessity  for  either.  Emerson  and  Car- 
lyle  cannot  have  been  distressingly  hungry  or 
wholly  devoid  of  cash  with  which  to  provide  for 
their  bodily  needs  on  the  day  they  called  here. 
But  their  visit  has  added  another  association  of 
interest  to  St.  Cross,  for  the  silver-mounted  cups 
and  the  wooden  platter  which  served  the  usual 

391 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

dole  to  those  notable  visitors  are  now  numbered 
among  the  relics  of  the  place.  Nor  are  they 
relics  merely,  for  the  ordinary  visitor  is  privileged 
to  have  his  dole  handed  out  in  the  same  cup  and 
on  the  same  platter.  Still,  a  certain  distinction  is 
made  between  callers  at  St.  Cross.  For  the  use  of 
the  tramp  there  is  a  larger  horn,  innocent  of  silver 
mountings,  and  with  that  longer  draught  of  ale  is 
supplied  a  portion  of  bread  in  keeping  therewith. 

Among  the  show  buildings  of  St.  Cross  are 
the  old  kitchen,  the  dining-hall,  and  the  church. 
Time  has  stood  still  in  that  kitchen  as  well  as  else- 
where in  this  mediaeval  retreat.  All  the  appli- 
ances for  cooking  are  of  a  long  past  time,  and 
would  strike  the  twentieth-century  chef  as  little 
tetter  than  relics  of  a  barbaric  age.  In  the 
dining-hall  it  is  still  the  past  rather  than  the 
present  which  is  in  evidence  —  the  black  leathern 
jacks,  the  candlesticks,  the  salt-cellars,  the  pew- 
ter dishes,  and  the  dinner-bell,  all  dating  from 
the  fifteenth  century.  The  church,  too,  is  of 
venerable  age,  its  oldest  portions  having  been 
reared  in  the  twelfth  century. 

In  wandering  round  the  cloisters  of  this  old- 
world  haven,  which  give  witness  so  mutely  of  an 
age  so  foreign  to  our  own,  the  memory  strives  to 
recall  some  mellowed  passage  of  prose  or  poetry 

392 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

by  which  to  voice  the  emotions  which  rise  un- 
bidden in  the  heart,  and  perhaps  there  is  no  pas- 
sage so  perfectly  in  harmony  with  this  scene  as 
that  in  which  Ruskin  has  so  subtly  analysed  the 
charm  of  ancient  buildings.  "  The  greatest  glory 


IN  THE  CLOISTERS  OF  ST.   CROSS 

of  a  building,"  he  wrote,  "  is  not  in  its  stones  nor 
in  its  gold.  Its  glory  is  in  its  Age,  and  in  that 
deep  sense  of  voicefulness,  of  stern  watching,  of 
mysterious  sympathy,  nay,  even  of  approval  or 
condemnation,  which  we  feel  in  walls  that  have 
long  been  washed  by  the  passing  waves  of  hu- 
manity. It  is  in  their  lasting  witness  against 

393 


LITERARY   BY-PATHS 

men,  in  their  quiet  contrast  with  the  transitional 
characters  of  all  things,  in  the  strength  which, 
through  the  lapse  of  seasons  and  times,  and  the 
decline  and  birth  of  dynasties,  and  the  changing 
of  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  limits  of 
the  sea,  maintains  its  sculptured  shapeliness  for  a 
time  insuperable,  connects  forgotten  and  follow- 
ing ages  with  each  other,  and  half  constitutes  the 
identity,  as  it  concentrates  the  sympathy,  of  na- 
tions :  it  is  in  that  golden  stain  of  time  that 
we  are  to  look  for  the  real  light  and  colour  and 
preciousness  of  architecture  ;  and  it  is  not  until 
a  building  has  assumed  this  character,  till  it  has 
been  entrusted  with  the  fame  and  hallowed  by  the 
deeds  of  men,  till  its  walls  have  been  witness  of 
suffering  and  its  pillars  rise  out  of  the  shadows  of 
death,  that  its  existence,  more  lasting  as  it  is  than 
that  of  natural  objects  of  the  world  around  it, 
can  be  gifted  with  even  so  much  as  these  possess 
of  language  and  of  life." 

Having  wandered  afield  from  Winchester  to 
visit  St.  Cross,  the  pilgrim  will  not  begrudge 
another  hour  or  so  that  he  may  gaze  upon  the 
old  schoolhouse  in  which  Pope  received  the  be- 
ginnings of  his  education,  especially  as  the  road 
thither  will  take  him  past  the  mansion  in  which 
Benjamin  Franklin  wrote  the  early  chapters  of 

394 


IN   OLD   ENGLAND 

his  "  Autobiography."     Both  these  buildings  are 
in  the  hamlet  of  Twyford,  which  claims,  and  not 
unjustly,  to  be  the  queen  of  Hampshire  villages. 
Despite  the  fact,  noted  by  Lowell  in  his  pene- 
trating essay,  that  we  know  more  about  Pope 


POPE'S  SCHOOLHOUSE  AT  TWYFORD 

than  about  any  other  poet,  that  "he  kept  no 
secrets  about  himself,"  he  was  singularly  reticent 
concerning  the  incidents  of  his  boyhood  days. 
No  doubt  there  is  little  to  say  about  a  boy  of 
eight,  which  was  the  age  of  the  poet  when  he 
attended  school  at  Twyford,  but  Pope  was  so 
prematurely  old  that  even  the  first  decade  of 

395 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

such  a  youth  might  have  been  expected  to  yield 
something  of  interest.  Beyond  the  bare  fact, 
however,  that  he  was  sent  to  school  in  this  build- 
ing, practically  nothing  is  known  of  his  sojourn  in 
Twyford  village.  Although  the  house  has  been 
transformed  into  labourers'  cottages,  the  large 
central  doorway  is  still  unaltered,  and  it  is  not 
difficult  to  imagine  the  appearance  of  the  build- 
ing as  it  was  in  the  poet's  boyhood.  Probably 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  weakly  child  accounts  for 
his  having  been  sent  so  far  into  the  country  away 
from  his  London  home,  and  it  is  not  idle  to  sup- 
pose that  his  acquaintance  with  rural  life  at  such 
an  impressionable  age  contributed  not  a  little  to 
the  early  ripening  of  the  pastoral  side  of  his 
muse.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  yet  none  the 
less  effectively,  his  sojourn  in  this  lovely  village 
stored  his  mind  with  the  simple  yet  attractive 
images  which  go  to  make  up  his  picture  of  "  The 
Quiet  Life,"  a  masterly  poem  to  be  placed  to  the 
credit  of  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  thus  written  four 
years  after  his  Twyford  days.  Here,  if  anywhere 
in  the  whole  of  England,  might  it  be  truly  said, 

"  Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground." 
396 


IN    OLD    ENGLAND 

On  the  way  back  to  Winchester,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  road,  and  hidden  by  a  high, 
ivy-clad  wall,  stands  Twyford  House,  immemo- 
rially  associated  with  the  inception  and  first  chap- 
ters of  the  famous  "  Autobiography  of  Benjamin 
Franklin."  "  Expecting,"  he  wrote  in  the  open- 
ing paragraph  of  that  book,  "  the  enjoyment  of  a 
few  weeks'  uninterrupted  leisure,"  he  bethought 
him  to  employ  the  time  usefully  by  tracing  the 
steps  by  which  he  had  raised  himself  to  "  a  state 
of  affluence  and  some  degree  of  celebrity  in  the 
world."  In  that  year,  1771,  Twyford  House  was 
the  home  of  Dr.  Shipley,  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph, 
and  here  the  illustrious  "  self-taught  American  " 
spent  several  pleasant  and  well-earned  vacations. 
Opposite  the  house  stands  a  row  of  trees  known 
as  "  Franklin's  Grove,"  because  there  the  philoso- 
pher was  wont  to  pace  to  and  fro  for  hours  at  a 
stretch,  meditating,  no  doubt,  upon  the  tangled 
condition  of  New  England  affairs,  or  perhaps 
conning  over  again  those  forthright  episodes  of 
his  life  which  lend  such  an  unfailing  charm  to  his 
famous  book. 

Twyford  House  forms  a  not  unfitting  climax 
to  a  visit  to  Royal  Winchester.  Yonder  lies  the 
ancient  city,  its  grey  stones  speaking  in  mute 
eloquence  of  the  early  origins  of  England,  and 

399 


LITERARY    BY-PATHS 

leading  the  mind  back  to  those  far-off  days  when 
her  foundations  were  laid  by  the  Great  Alfred  in 
love  of  liberty  and  truth ;  here  are  the  walls 
which  once  sheltered  the  man  who,  perhaps  more 
than  any  other,  was  typical  of  the  new  English 
race  in  the  New  World,  who  counted  no  labour 
irksome  in  the  cause  of  liberty  and  peace. 


400 


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